


The Green Horses of Heaven

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [26]
Category: Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Adventure, Afterlife, Amazons - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Androgynous male character, BDSM, Bisexual Characters, Bisexual Female Character, Blood Brothers, Brief Graphic Gore, Brief Graphic Violence, Buddhism, Buddhist Characters, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Central Asia, Ceremonies, Chinese Characters, Chinese Mythology - Freeform, Companionable Snark, Comrades in Arms, Cosmetics, Cross-cultural, Cultural Differences, Cunnilingus, Dark Het, Death Rituals, Dominant Androgynous Male Character, Dominant Male Character/Submissive Female Character, Dreams, Egalitarian Het Relationship, Erotica, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fellatio, Female Ejaculation, Femslash, Friendship, Funerals, Grief/Mourning, Held Down, Heroine/Villain, Het, Het and Femslash, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Erotic Romance, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical Romance, Horses, Irreligious Characters, Islam, Islamic legends and lore, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, Light BDSM, Magic, Magic as sex aid, Magic-Users, Magical Bondage, Married Couple, Martial Arts, Middle Ages, Multi, Muslim characters, Mysticism, Other, Pagan characters, Persia, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Prayer, Pussy Spanking, Rituals, Sex Robots, Squirting, Tang Dynasty, Telepathic Sex, The Golden Age of Islam, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Viking Characters, Warlords, alternative history, belt spanking, costume porn, the silk road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: Noble guests arrive to honour Fadl from far and wide, including Fadl's old comrade-in-arms, the Chinese warlord Li Lau. As tension mounts between the guests and their conflicting interests, Jaffar struggles to keep the peace; that, and he also has a nervous wife to calm down. Thankfully, he knows just the right means to achieve both: magic, and his skill as a lover.***Fresh from their bath, Jaffar comes to embrace Yassamin from behind; his perfumes wrap about her gently, enfolding her in their dark voluptuousness, his firm and loving care. He nuzzles the perfumes from her damp hair in turn, the jasmine and roses a caress of fragrance swirling sweetly from his lungs into his hips."Come to bed," he says, his hands warm upon her stomach, his fingertips playing softly in the dip between her belly and her sex.Yet, she tarries in a tease, pretending to squirm a little in protest; she smiles at him through her reflection in the glass, adoring the way his eyes spark in delight at this, the way his lips part to reveal his crooked teeth.He lifts his hands to her breasts; through her nightdress, he can feel her nipples are hard against his palms. "I said, 'come to bed,'wife."
Relationships: Jaffar/Princess (Thief of Bagdad), Jaffar/Princess/OMC, Jaffar/Princess/Sexbot!Jaffar, Minor or Background Relationship(s), OFC/OFC, Zainab/Lina (Thief of Bagdad)
Series: Of Roses Unfurling [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/25989
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7
Collections: Conrad Veidt





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We get a glimpse of some of the Persians' neighbours in the early 800s. Set in an alternative version of history where the Persians and the Tang Dynasty Chinese kicked the Tibetans out after An Lushan and divided Central Asia among themselves, retaining control of it well into the 800s. Introducing Fadl's blood brother [Li Lau,](https://www.pillowfort.social/Snowgrouse/tagged/li%20lau) because [Zhang Fengyi](https://www.pillowfort.social/Snowgrouse/tagged/zhang%20fengyi) is so fucking cool I needed to create a new OC "played by" him for the Rosesverse. Lau is a gen character, however, so it's just Jaffar/Yassamin who get the explicit loving action in this one--with bonus Sarosh the Sexbot for that extra thrust. Zainab and Lina do get some snuggles, too, so it's not entirely void of femslash either.
> 
> Thanks ever so much to everyone who's helped me with the story, but especially Lonemagpie with his fight choreography expertise and Mags with her emotional support. You're all darlings.

_"The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears."_

_\--Arabian proverb_

*******

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

**The courtyard**

**Late at night**

*******

"Was such fit of rage truly necessary, my love?" Yassamin asks as Jaffar marches out of the shabestan with her, he still glowering and sweeping his robes about him with a huff, just as he had done a few moments ago when they'd been talking to Mohammad through their crystal.

"Trust me; it was," Jaffar says, striding swiftly across the frozen courtyard. "Had I not pretended to be upset about not being invited, Mohammad would've been suspicious."

"I know," Yassamin says, struggling to keep up with him and the light of his lantern, so as not to stumble in the dark. "But won't this make him think you'll come to the funeral regardless?" 

"Oh, he might suspect it; as a matter of fact, I'm sure he will," Jaffar says, deliberately taking deep breaths to regain his calm. "But remaining invisible is the most important thing. He forbids me from coming because he wants me to remain incognito; I, too, wish to remain incognito. Then, what better way to achieve that than by remaining completely invisible? The ultimate incognito! If he and the guests cannot see me, there will be no trouble whatsoever."

"God willing," Yassamin murmurs darkly. 

She won't even ask Jaffar why he cannot simply watch Fadl's funeral from his crystal; it's understandable that he wishes to be there in person to bid Fadl farewell. But she knows that just like Mohammad, Jaffar has other things on his mind besides farewells. For both have their mind on politics, both wish to keep an eye on their guests, some of whom rank among the most important men in the Persia and beyond it: for during his time as vizier and amir, Fadl had fought beside many major warlords, had allied himself with many ministers of high standing, had befriended many foreign diplomats, some of whom have now travelled from the most distant corners of the continent to pay their respects.

It is curious, Yassamin thinks, how only now does she truly realise just how long and eventful a life Fadl had led, how famous, how legendary a personage her ever-immature brother-in-law had been: only now has she learned, for example, that a quarter of a century ago, during his time as governor of Samarkand, Fadl son of Yahya had been such a benevolent, just ruler that thousands of children had been named Fadl in his honour. Nevertheless, she shudders to think of Fadl not having been allowed the immediate burial every good Muslim deserves, but Mohammad having had his doctors embalm Fadl in the ancient manner, so that his body would be preserved long enough for all the guests to arrive. That fact, in and of itself, had made it clear enough to everyone that the gathering's main purpose was to be, above all else, a political one.

"To use the corpse of one's own brother for statecraft," Yassamin mutters, "It's enough to turn one's stomach."

Jaffar glances at her over his shoulder with a wry smile. "And typical of a Barmakid. In fact, I'm sure many are reviving the old tales of our deviousness this very moment."

"As long as you don't get too deeply involved," she says as they enter the house, never removing their outer robes due to the chill. 

"I've told you; I've given up politics for ever," Jaffar says and lights a larger lantern, by the light of which they make their way down the hallway. "I'm only going there to investigate. To see if there are any possible dangers looming on the horizon; anything that could threaten Mohammad, Samarkand, us."

"A dozen warlords and politicians under the same roof?" she says, wrapping her robe tighter about herself. "He's asking for trouble. That's what I don't understand; why he's prepared to take such risks. Why invite them at all?"

"God only knows," Jaffar sighs as they enter the quiet kitchen, lighting its lamps from the lantern and setting out to brew some tea. 

Yassamin busies herself stoking the fire, adding more wood and hanging up a little pot over it; thoughtfully, Zahra had left them a little soup and bread, having known they were to stay up late in the shabestan tonight. Dear, sweet Zahra, Sonbol and the children, this whole household--what might become of them, were war to break out thanks to a misplaced word at the gathering? And then there's Zainab's house full of women: surely, an irresistible target for any ruthless warrior hungry for conquest, for female flesh? 

"You're shivering," Jaffar murmurs, coming to stroke Yassamin's shoulders from behind, having heard her thoughts. "Don't forget about my spells. Not a soul will be able to enter New Lesbos lest Zainab wills it." 

Indeed, the complex magical mazes Jaffar had constructed around New Lesbos will only lead unwanted visitors around and around in circles, spiralling ever further away into the woodlands, so that Zainab's palace might indeed be the legend, the figment most people already think it is, not unlike the myths of Amazons.

Yassamin turns around with a sigh. "But what if something should happen to you? Who would protect us, then?"

He hugs her tight. "That's exactly why I have to go. To find the troublemakers--the _hypothetical_ troublemakers--before they find us."

She pulls back and looks deep into his eyes, firm. "I'm coming with you."

He smiles gently, the thousand wrinkles around his eyes like sun-rays, the firelight dancing through his irises. "I was hoping you would say that, my love," he murmurs and strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Of you, I would expect nothing less."

Suddenly, she has a thought. "You don't think... Zainab might want to come to the funeral?"

"I think she wants to, but I doubt she will risk it."

"I was just thinking of that time when she really thought he was dead. How she said she wanted to bury him as if a queen her king. Of how she would've had him anointed with the most precious of substances, would've had him wrapped in gold leaf, would've had a mausoleum built, and there, had his coffin suspended from chains to hang between heaven and earth."

"Mmm. Perhaps that's where Mohammad got the idea. Actually, they haven't yet decided whether to use the mausoleum here, or build a new one for him in Balkh."

She sighs. "Poor Fadl, not being laid to his final rest for years, yet."

"It's only his body," Jaffar says and hugs her against his heart, kissing her head. "You saw how the real Fadl is happy, now. With nothing to worry about. You know," he says and pulls back from her, grinning, "I think he's probably raising an eyebrow right now, just like this," and he wiggles his in a most Fadl-like manner, "and smirking, shaking his head at all the trouble Mohammad's going to for him." He claps his hands on her arms. "But now, enough of this doom and gloom," he says. "Time for tea."

*******

  
**Afrasiyab, Samarkand**

**Mohammad's study**

  
*******

"Latifa, you know I am busy; now is not the time--"

"Save me from them, husband!" Latifa cries in despair, clinging to Mohammad's robe. "If only for a few moments at least. I am losing my mind, I tell you; I am."

Mohammad gestures for the guards to leave them; when they're gone, he leads Latifa to sit beside himself on a cot. "I take it that it's the Chinese invasion you're talking about?" 

She sighs and lets the mantle drop from her head. "You can absolutely call it that, you realise; it is no joking matter. All their shallowness, their vanity--think of it, they expect our harem to cater to them like a Tang one would, with twenty-five maids for each lady! They expect Chinese cosmetics, hair and nail lacquers and foods that are nigh impossible for us to provide. Can you believe Lady Jin nearly had three of our maids caned to death for not having found any dragonfly wings for her to use as beauty patches? Oh, my love, how much longer do we still have to endure them?"

"A week from the day the last guests arrive. At least."

"Merciful God!" she groans and leans against Mohammad's shoulder.

"Speaking of whom, can you not use Him as a good excuse to stay away from them? Just tell them that you are in the prayer room, studying religious manuscripts? That's what you always do, anyway." He rubs her shoulder and smiles. "At least they expect that from Latifa the Saint."

"But that's exactly why I am going mad; I have had so little time left for God since their arrival. I barely have enough time for prayers, let alone for contemplation and study. I am still their hostess, remember. Everything that goes on in the harem, I have to ultimately answer for--including having to explain to them our 'barbarian' lack of dragonfly wings, and our pierced ears and nostrils. You should've seen their faces when we first met, all of them but staring at us, horrified. I am told that for the Chinese, the body is so holy that they abhor piercing it, scarring it, tattooing it, even for ornament." She smiles and shakes her head. "Do you know what the little princess asked her mother?"

"I'm sure you are about to tell me."

"'Mother, what happens when they get a cold? How do they blow their noses?'" she laughs. "I had to tell them that the nose-rings can, indeed, be taken off for such purposes. Do you know, I think she had only ever seen the like on buffaloes!"

Mohammad laughs and pats her hand. "As long as wars don't break out over these little differences, I think we will have done well."

Latifa arches an eyebrow: wars have been fought for less. And considering the Chinese and the Tibetans are always at each other's throats, and not too far away from the Persian border either, neither she or Mohammad are going to take any chances.

"Even in the harem, we cannot be too careful; thus, I have already taken precautions to keep the groups firmly separated from each other. The Mongolians prefer their own tents, as you know, so they presented no problem. As for the Tibetan women, I've arranged for them to stay in another building entirely, as far away from the Chinese as possible. Any news from when they'll arrive, my love?"

"The Tibetans should be with us in a day or two, and the last of the Chinese... the end of this week at the latest, I hear," Mohammad says. "You're right in that they're the ones we need to watch out for, although Li Lau is as old as Fadl himself was, perhaps even older; I was but a boy the only time I met him. What little I know about him, I know from what Fadl told me in his letters. And from that, I distinctly remember him saying that Li made a point of never travelling with women. Whether this was from superstition or because he feared Fadl would seduce them all, I don't know."

"Or perhaps he but hates women," Latifa says with a wince, gathering her mantle about her head once more. "It would be typical of a warlord; particularly of the sort that _Fadl_ would befriend. Did you not say they were blood brothers, or something like that?"

"Something like that. I am not quite sure myself," Mohammad says as Latifa gets up to leave, standing up himself and holding her hand. "Perhaps he will tell us. But in any case, this should mean that at least the harem will have one less faction to worry about." 

"God willing," she murmurs as Mohammad kisses her forehead in reassurance; "God willing."

*******

**New Lesbos**

*******

"I don't feel like myself at all," Lina sighs as the women dress her in front of a mirror, and in extremely feminine attire at that.

"That's exactly what we want," Zainab says. "So that no one will suspect anything," she continues, nodding with approval at Lina's now-transformed appearance.

And what a transformation it is, indeed: for Lina, who barely remembers the China of her childhood at all, is to pose as a Chinese lady in order to spy on the assembly. She is dressed in garments of finest silk, simple but elegantly embroidered: a voluminous, light green robe with enormous, drooping sleeves draped over a warm ochre skirt, the latter pulled up high over her breasts. The skirt, in turn, is held up by a darker red band of fabric across her bust, both the skirt and the breast-band kept in place by a thin red ribbon, tied into a long bow at the front. Her chin-length, pageboy hair has been disguised with yards and yards of black hairpieces, teased and waxed into a halo-like roll about her face; from the enormous chignon behind this roll spring up two great circular hoops of hair on either side of her head.

"You've made me look like a mouse!" Lina groans, feeling for the giant hoops. "It's exactly like a pair of mouse ears; that's what it is!"

"And that's exactly why I chose to have it dressed like that, mouse-mouse," Zainab grins, patting at the book of Chinese fashions resting open upon the windowsill. "A little private joke I hope you will be able to forgive me, my love--no, don't touch it!" she cries as Lina tries to scratch at the cluster of pins holding the hoops in place. She comes to stand behind Lina, balancing the hoops as if trying to keep a priceless vase from toppling over. "The benefit of this entire outfit is that it will help you look like the lady you now are: to give you an aristocratic carriage, the way it forces you to move in a slow and dignified manner. See how it naturally gifts you with a regal posture, yields a gracefulness to your walk? Hmm?" she says and takes a long golden hairpin from one of the maids. "And once we finish putting all of these in, their combined weight will help you even further--here, girls, help me," she says and points at the book. "Try and imitate that painting as closely as possible."

With a sigh, Lina resigns herself to her fate. Zainab and the women pin over a dozen different ornaments into her hair, some of silver, some of gold, some adorned with flowers made of shell and precious stones. When they finally let go, Lina struggles with this new, ladylike walk expected of her: yet the hairpieces, the ornaments and the garments truly _do_ aid her in moving more slowly. The cascades of silver chains now dangling from the pins in her hair chime sweetly as she walks, far more delicately than Zainab's cacophonous orchestra of crashing and rattling bangles and bells does; the heavy silk, sweeping the ground as it does, shortens her steps. 

"It will take some getting used to," Lina murmurs at her reflection, at Zainab's smiling face behind her. 

"Don't worry, mouse-mouse. With your brains, you'll pick it up in no time," she says and kisses her on the neck, the only part of her not covered in paints, powders or ornaments.

"I hope so. How much time do I have?"

"We're planning for you to arrive with Li Lau's harem. He should be here by the end of the week." She pats Lina reassuringly on the back, then gestures for the women to leave them. 

"Mouse-mouse?" she asks when they're alone, leaning closer to whisper confidentially in her ear.

"Yes?"

"If they _do_ have any great beauty secrets, you simply _must_ make a note of them for me."

Lina rolls her eyes and laughs. "I will, mistress. I will."

*******

Illustration (colour doodle) of Lina in the Tang Dynasty outfit:

<https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1585501>

*******

**The Blue House**

**The love chamber**

**A few days later**

*******

Finally, the snow has begun to melt, relinquishing its frosty grip upon the earth. Her quiet prayer of gratitude misting against her great window, Yassamin watches the goats and sheep grazing in the valley outside: had the frost continued for much longer, they might have all died from starvation. 

Jaffar comes to embrace her from behind. They're fresh from their bath, and his perfumes wrap about her as gently as the silks of his nightdress do, his musk and oudh enfolding her in their dark voluptuousness, his firm and loving care. 

She leans her head back into his shoulder, sighing, glad. 

_I, too, am glad to be alive,_ he murmurs into her mind, nuzzling the perfumes from her damp hair in turn, the lush jasmine and roses a caress of fragrance swirling sweetly from his lungs into his hips.

"Come to bed," he says out loud, his hands warm upon her stomach, his fingertips playing softly in the dip between her belly and her sex. 

Yet, she tarries in a tease, pretending to squirm a little in protest; she smiles at him through her reflection in the glass, adoring the way his eyes spark in delight at this, the way his lips part to reveal his crooked teeth. The beast in him is what she desires tonight, and she needs no words to tell him this. For all day, he has been aware of her heat, its rising: he had scented it even past the smell of food during mealtimes, had caught it from her stolen glances, wicked, even as she had been teaching their children. All day, she has been burning for him, her every nerve sensitised by her moon-cycle drawing towards its end; now, the heaviness of her breathing has covered the windowpane before her in a fine mist.

He lifts his hands to cup her breasts; even through her nightdress, he can feel her nipples are hard against his palms. "I said, 'come to bed,' _wife._ "

Still, she teases, now grinning widely; she stiffens her body in mock-resistance, even if her cheeks flush, even if the pulse upon her neck flutters rapidly against his kissing mouth. 

"All right," he says, lightly. "Have it your own way. Oh, by the way," he feels for the glass with his fingertips, "How sturdy did you make this window, my love?"

"How so?" she asks. "It withstood that storm, rememb--oh!"

For now, he has slammed her against the window so hard she is seeing stars; the glass cold against her front, he hot against her back, a living flame. All the hair on her body stands on end, her heart thundering at the shock; yet her cunny leaps so violently it hurts. Hurts, like her lips and her cheek from having been caught between the glass and her skull; but louder than the love-blow, through her bones now rings her need. This, this is what she had wanted--

He casts off his nightdress and lifts up hers, pulling back her hips so that her cunny and her arse are pushed out, exposed, bare; sliding his erection between her buttocks, he pins her wrists, her upper body against the glass once more, undulating against her, purring. 

"Is that better, hmm? Is that what you want, my little gazelle?" he chuckles, rutting against her just as hard as he does when taking her. He lets her feel the hardness of his prick, the length of it, the readiness of it; the firmness of his body, the tautness of his muscles, poised to ravage. "Then, this is all for you, my sweet; all of it, all of it," he lisps, wet and sibilant in her ear. 

He pulls back from her a little, adoring just how wet she has made his cock, the strings of her sap dangling between her cunny and his sack. "Oh, but _look_ at you, my love," he croons in mock-pity, coos; he shares this vision with her, loving how she trembles at her own lust, the way her cunny pulses once again as she sees the way she glistens for him. "So plump and smooth and gleaming, shining as if burnished;" he poesies, "just how I like it, my love, just how I like it; so slick and soft for me, so soft for me to _take._ "

She howls into the window, her nails creaking against the glass. "Please," she groans, even the vibrations of her own voice now making her cunny ache. "Please, my love, tease no longer."

"My little wanton," he nuzzles against her cheek, stealing a lick at her ear; this only so that he can feel her cunny clenching around the tip of his cock as he poises himself at her entrance. "Perhaps I should take you to the assembly in secret, masked, just like Zainab and I did that night at the marketplace, remember?" he breathes in her ear, "But this time, I would cover everything except this little thing here; display this to the men as the most exquisite cunny in all of Persia," he hisses as he begins to push inside, she now so wet she is dripping down his balls. "Let them all have a good look, a good _smell,_ " he groans as he slides inside, gasping a little as the muscles at the mouth of her cunny squeeze sweetly around his shaft. "And for the highest bidder of all, oh, let him have a good _taste._ "

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," she sobs, unable to stop squeezing around his cock, shuddering all over as he begins to move inside of her.

"I knew you'd like that, my little harlot," he growls, clawing his way down her arms, coming to squeeze her breasts from below, now rolling his hips as he takes her, thrusting more sobs out of her. "As for the highest bidder, I wonder who that'd be? One of the barbarians, perhaps? Think of it, my love! Some brutal, unwashed warlord, stinking of animal skins, musk and piss--"

But now she shrieks so loudly the room echoes from her cry; she slips her hand to her cunny, mewling as she rubs herself, balancing against the window with one hand. "You are a beast, a beast, a terrible, wicked beast--"

"That's what you'd say to him, too. Is that not right?" he pants, yanking her head up by the hair, taking her ever faster. "'Please, don't hurt me,' you'd cry, yet you'd love it, love it, love it--" And now his voice breaks into a high laughter as she sprays his balls, sprays his thighs, screaming so loudly the very window vibrates. 

"You bastard," she sobs, staggering; she would fall down were it not for his hands upon her waist, in her hair. 

"Mmmm." He pulls her head to himself, kissing her deeply, still taking her even as she trembles in his arms. "Will you _now_ come to bed, my love?"

She pulls back from the kiss, panting against the glass. "If only so I can slap you," she mumbles.

With a deep, hearty chuckle, he lifts her bodily from the window; with a little magic to help him, he carries her to bed while still nestled inside of her. He pins her face down onto the bed, clasping her hands, now more tender as he undulates inside of her, luxuriating in her; she is too weak to even sob, still dazed from how hard he'd made her come.

"Still in the land of the living, my love?" he chuckles, more than a little proud of his achievement. He stops moving inside of her and pulls her into a spooning position, gently kissing her cheek. 

"Mmm. I said you were a bastard."

"But that's why you love me. Come," he says and slaps her arse. "Ride me. That should wake you up."

"You're also a slavedriver."

"Still thinking of that fantasy, I see?" he laughs and sprawls decadently upon the bed, uncurling his limbs wide upon the fresh, rose-scented sheets. "Come, then, concubine mine. Serve me like a barbarian slave would. I--" 

His voice breaks into a moan, seeing as she has just slid between his legs and taken his cock into her mouth. _It was in danger of softening, my love,_ she laughs into his mind, wiping hair from her face as she looks up at him, chuckling around his cock. _And a slave could not possibly allow herself to disappoint her master,_ she thinks, adoring how his belly dips at that, how his eyelids flutter closed in delight as she begins to fellate him. Even underneath closed lids, she can see his eyes flickering back and forth as he abandons himself to the pleasure she now enwraps him in. 

Despite their play, no freshly bought slave girl could bring him this, and it makes his heart ache, his love spilling over in soft breaths, in the worship of his trembling fingers in her hair: more than anything, he is now basking in the exquisite pleasures only her intimate knowledge of his body, borne of a marriage of fourteen years, can bring. She knows exactly how to wrap her palm around his cock, so that the pads of her palm press where he loves being pressed best, her fingertips in turn fluttering where he loves a flutter best; the cups and licks of her tongue teasing him perfectly around the glans, playing tenderly at that most sensitive spot at his frenulum.

And his delight, in turn, delights her: his pleasure, his adoration swirls into her body, pours into her that radiant sunlight of his love, that tide of desire and satiation that always flows abundant between them when they love. She could continue this forever, but then, her cunny clenches so violently that her womb itself curls, from the sight that now lies before her: his lips, always so flushed and red and slick, now part a little, sharp breaths escaping through his teeth. For it is those crooked teeth she has been dreaming of all day, that way he can capture her clitoris so perfectly between that little gap in them; that glossy, beastly mouth of his that can so devastate her with pleasure that it seems to suck the very life out of her--

Having heard that thought, Jaffar now opens his eyes just a fraction, grinning at her widely. "If you serve me well, I might just reward you with a suck, my dear," he leers, licking his lips. "I am in a mood for some _sweets,_ but as you know, sweets are restoratives, and thus always best savoured after an exertion. Such as a long and vigorous _ride._ " He crooks his finger at her, sending out a little tendril of magic to lift her off his cock, as if his fingertip were indeed lifting up her chin. "Now, if my slave girl would mount...?"

She gets up, staggering a little from her heat; still, she makes sure to gift him with a kiss as she straddles him, letting him taste the sweetness of his own arousal before she allows his sex to touch hers. He returns the kiss with a deep hunger, sinking his fingers into her hair, growling as he ruts his cock in her slit, she so wet he can hear her. 

"Tarry no longer, wench," he rasps into her mouth, tightening his hands into fists and twisting at her hair, cruel; "give it to me, _now._ " 

"To hear is to obey," she hisses, with tears in her eyes from this pain she so loves. 

Staring deep into his eyes, he never letting go of her hair, she guides him inside of her cunny, both of them jerking slightly from how wonderful it feels. This, the return to union, this their original state, this as they always should be, joined. He whimpers as he bucks up into her, biting his lip; when his mouth falls open again, when his head falls back again, a little blood beads upon his lower lip. 

She begins a slow ride, and already, at the very first descent, his throat ripples with deep groans, his nostrils flare with sobs; his hands tremble too much for him to hold her head up any longer, so he returns them to the sheets, clutching them for purchase. Almost too breathless for laughter, she leans back, back, as far back as she can, allowing her body to fall back so that both their heads touch the bed; now, she does not so much ride him but keeps on pleasuring herself with the squeezes of her cunny, the muscles of her hips, rolling her belly exactly like a dancer would. Her buttocks rocking her hips back and forth, her belly dipping and rising in turns, she undulates upon his cock; now, she can feel him pulsing inside of her, such is the pleasure this gentle bending and massaging of his prick gives him. 

"Yassamin..." he sighs, wonderfully trapped beneath her, unable to lift his hips in this position; he can but lie there and let the waves of pleasure wash over him, through him, hot and molten through his very marrow. He has waited for so long, held back for so long that had she not done this, he would've come inside her immediately; he pours out to her his gratitude, sings it to her with his moans, caresses it onto her thighs with his hands. 

Thus, they continue for a long while until her back begins to ache; with a restless groan, she rises and brings her hand to her cunny. And oh, but the bliss upon his face when she sees him again, the radiant delight! He looks a decade younger, all strain and weariness gone from him, he smiling as calmly as a pagan idol. 

With a happy sigh, he brings his hands to her breasts, his voice young, light. "Would my slave girl allow her master to come?" he asks, playful, almost shy.

She leans in with a smile and nuzzles his face, kissing his nose. "How would you like to do that, my lord and master?"

He nuzzles her in turn, his eyes crossed from his joy. "Mmm. You know how. Through yours, my love."

"My pleasure," she grins and licks her fingertips, returning them to her cunny.

And it doesn't take long for her to bring herself to release, not long at all: she curls atop him, now riding him vigorously, her buttocks slapping against his thighs. All the while, he holds her head in his hands, his mouth a little open, he blinking only as drops of her sweat fall into his eyes; drinking in her sensations, she can see the rise of her own orgasm reflected in his face, his whole body, a sight that never ceases to astonish her. That from the rising of the veins upon his temples, from the tremor of his lips, the tautness of his neck she can see the rise of her own ecstasy: from the lost look in his eyes, the wideness of their skies, her own unfurling, loosening, soaring free. The waves of release begin in their bodies simultaneously, their moans burst out from their mouths as one; so do the low and high, uncontrolled cries that her womb, his testicles demand so that the waves crash through their bodies all the way, all the way. They shout in each other's faces, half laughing as both feel the slight embarrassment of those noises that sound odd to one's ears, but strike the most perfect bliss-waves from deep inside of their hips; the little shrieks in her throat as her womb curls, spasms, the low animal bellows and grunts as he ejaculates inside of her. 

Exactly in time, her cunny pulls on his cock as his sack leaps up and he shoots his seed inside of her; exactly in time, she falls down as he strains to verily bury himself in her. They are bruising each other with their hipbones, their clutching hands but neither cares; it but adds to the pleasure, makes the pleasure-ripples ring ever harder through their joined flesh and blood and bone. 

With a wail, Yassamin falls off him, far too sweaty to lie atop him, now; she is trembling, her cunny fluttering still, for long moments as she catches her breath. Every breath of hers blows a subtle, lighter wave of pleasure through her body still; yet, from the edges of her consciousness, she is glad to feel that this is the same for Jaffar, too. 

_That was amazing,_ he groans into her mind, too exhausted to speak out loud. _But let me catch my breath before I pay you back._

 _There is no need,_ she thinks back at him, fumbling to place her hand upon his chest. _I am sore already; I think you would make me bleed were you to give me even a lick!_

_I am a man of my word,_ he nevertheless murmurs into her mind. "And mark my words," he says out loud for emphasis, "the next time, I will drive you _so_ mad with my mouth you will be begging for mercy after the, oh, sixth orgasm," he laughs wickedly, dancing his own fingertips across her breastbone.

"I am positively aquiver with terror at the prospect," she laughs, picking up his hand and kissing it. _My wonderful, wonderful love._

"As you are mine," he murmurs, laving both their genitals gently with a cleansing spell, too tired to wash. When he is done, he gathers her into his arms with a great groan, despite her protests at his stickiness, hugging her tight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1761283) are some photos of the kinds of green terracotta horses that are featured in the story. 
> 
> You can get some kind of idea of where "Anxi," the area Lau and Fadl used to wander in, was from [the Wikipedia article on the subject.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Protectorate_General_to_Pacify_the_West)
> 
> [Here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1866520) are some good reference shots of a Tang Dynasty era messenger with long white plumes strapped to his back, similar to the guy in Li Lau's camp.

*******

**The outskirts of Samarkand**

**Li Lau's camp**

**Evening**

*******

"Jiedushi!"

The messenger barges into the tent, the long white plumes strapped to his back swaying as he pants at the door, grasping at the tent flaps with both hands. "Jiedushi!"

"I heard you the first time, boy," Li Lau says quietly, not turning towards the messenger from the camp bed upon which he sits in full armour, sharpening his sword.

Alarmed, the messenger falls to his knees and bows, pressing his forehead to the carpeted floor. "A thousand apologies, sire."

Continuing to sharpen his sword, Li lets the messenger wait for long moments, so long the latter's breathing evens. Li lifts his sword up to one of the oil lamps lining the tent, then tests the blade's sharpness against his much-worn, scuffed leather gauntlet. Deeming the blade sharp enough, he wipes it carefully and pushes it back into its scabbard upon his hip.

Finally, he turns towards the messenger, his hands upon his knees. "Get up. I expect it is important?"

"Aye, sire," the messenger replies, dusting himself off. "For we have detected potential spies."

"Don't bring dust into my tent," Li says, his face calm, expressionless, yet all the more threatening for that; the messenger stiffens. "Besides, that's no news; there are bound to be spies here. Do you know if they are Persian or Tibetan, or something else?"

"Persian, or we think so at least. As per your orders, sire, we have not apprehended them yet."

"Good. I want you to keep it that way. We don't want them to know that we know. What do they look like?"

"Khorasani, sire; they speak the local dialect. It's an old man saying he is a fortune teller, travelling with a little boy, supposedly his grandson. Our suspicions were aroused by his appearing here as soon as we had camped."

Indeed, the weather is far too miserable for anyone--let alone the elderly--to travel right now, unless they have an extremely pressing reason for it. Beggars, of the fortune-teller and witch-doctor sort in particular, huddle in towns and cities this time of the year, especially as the bazaar guards, who would normally drive them out, aren't too keen on going out themselves.

"A fortune teller?" Finally, a little smile appears at the corner of Li's mouth. "How quaint. Give him food and shelter; we may as well let him entertain us a little. See how well he can play his part." Li nods to dismiss the messenger. "See to it."

"Aye, sire!" The messenger bows, takes three steps back before he turns and rushes out as quickly as he'd entered.

*******

_Are you sure this is a good idea?_ Yassamin asks Jaffar telepathically, she still stumbling a little in her plain grey robe, trying very hard to maintain the demeanour of a little boy underneath the glamour Jaffar has cast upon them.

 _I am. Positive,_ Jaffar tells her, leaning upon his staff with both hands and with his back bent, his long white beard and bushy white eyebrows fluttering in the wind: the very picture of the ancient sage. _But remember, my love, that you must be sure, too; you know how the power of a spell hinges upon the caster's faith._

She hopes so, as she is terrified: she has never been inside a military camp, and had she known this was what it would be like, she would've stayed home. For by now, the sun has set and the men are loud and rowdy, some of them already quite drunk; they have taken to singing and dancing beside the campfires to keep warm.

"It is but a small camp, my boy. Behold: there are only about forty men. When I was a young man, riding to Byzantium with Harun, we had thousands of--"

But he is interrupted by a young man--a messenger, it seems--who now bows before them, his hands clasped before his chest in greeting. To Yassamin's surprise, he addresses them in perfect Persian, with no trace of an accent.

"We are honoured to have you here, grandfather," the messenger says, bowing and smiling obsequiously. "This way."

Jaffar, however, remains still, stroking his beard, considering. "Where is 'this way,' my friend?"

"The master's tent; he was just about to have his dinner, but now hopes that you might share it with him," the messenger says, still bowing, still smiling. "He maintains an interest in celestial matters, you see, and thinks Fate must have brought you here. For just last night, he tells me, he had witnessed a curious phenomenon in the heavens, and had been hoping his court astrologer were here to tell him what it meant."

"A seeker of wisdom, I see," Jaffar smiles gently. "I like him already, and would be glad to assist him, in any way I can. But tell me, what was the name of your master? I am sure someone told me already, but my ears and my memory are no longer what they used to be."

The messenger straightens himself out and clasps his hands before himself again. "The great Li Lau, Jiedushi of the Far-Western Protectorate, Lord of Kashgar!"

Jaffar takes his hand to his heart and bows stiffly. "It will be my honour to serve such a distinguished man."

"Come; we must not keep him waiting. The food will grow cold."

As they enter the heavily guarded tent and sit down to dine, Yassamin is somewhat surprised to find that despite Li's polite manner--he greets them in accented, but fluent Persian--Li barely acknowledges them at first. As they are introduced, Li does give them both a very sharp, penetrating look, studying them head to toe, but over the dinner itself, Li only talks with his officers--in Sogdian--and of very mundane matters at that, going by the words she can make out. This is, of course, absolutely deliberate, as Li is now sounding them out, perhaps even intending to make them nervous.

Jaffar but takes this cheerfully in his stride, using this time to perfect his performance of the grateful, starving old man. And as Jaffar concentrates--or, rather, pretends to concentrate--on eating, Yassamin concentrates on studying Li Lau.

He doesn't, in fact, look particularly distinguished: indeed, if it weren't for his gold-embroidered, black silk robes, he wouldn't stand out in a crowd. At least when he is sitting down, that is. For the only thing that truly sets him apart from other men, as far as appearances are concerned, is his great height: like Jaffar and Fadl, he is a little over six feet, positively gigantic for a man Chinese. Yet his face is fairly nondescript, not plump but nevertheless soft around the edges, unusual for a man who's spent his entire life on the battlefield. His brows are even, his nose short and wide with alert nostrils, his dark eyes sharp and yet calmly lidded--this is a man most acutely aware of his surroundings, and one who does not betray his feelings easily. Perhaps his lips, generous and with a sharply cut bow, are a little fuller, more sensuous than is usual for a man; yet they, too, are half covered by a moustache and a small pointed beard, similar to Fadl's. Whereas Tang courtiers wear their facial hair as long as they can grow it, Li's is trimmed short; whereas some wear their hair down like Muslim rakes, or wear ornate little crowns of gold and jade around their topknots, Li's chignon is held in place only by a plain leather band and a wooden pin stuck through it.

Thus, everything about Li speaks of practicality, simplicity, straightforwardness instead of ostentation: it is obvious that his calmness, steadiness and his measuring, calculating intelligence are the qualities that make him a leader of men. Watching him, Yassamin gets the impression that he has but two expressions: an unmoving, introverted, stony stillness that reveals nothing, and more rarely, a satisfied smirk, a rogueish twinkle in his quick black eyes that indicates he is already two steps ahead of everyone else.

In short, it is no wonder this man is a king. For that is what the Jiedushi are, for all intents and purposes: miniature kings ruling their own countries, taxing them as they see fit, raising their own armies at will; they are subject to the Tang emperor in but name. Not at all different from the amirs of the most distant provinces of Persia, then: just like his friend, Fadl, had been.

 _His friend, Fadl._ That the ever-irascible Fadl had had a close friend--no, not merely a close friend but a _blood brother!_ The very thought makes Yassamin nearly burst from curiosity. Were they...? No, no; they cannot have been lovers; for it is impossible for Yassamin to even imagine a man as cool and as calm as Li in the throes of passion, a lover to women _or_ men. He seems like the kind of man who is simply not interested in love or sex; rather, he seems like the sort that is married to his work, to some great ideal, or both.

Finally, Li turns to Jaffar, lifting his cup and smiling that slow, knowing smile of his. "And now, I would hear the latest tidings from the heavenly realms," he says, then gestures at his officers, his guards. "Leave us; I can tell this man is a genius, and geniuses must not be disturbed in their work. You too, Jing'er," he says at a young servant-lad. "But fill this man's cup and you may retire for the night."

"Aye, master," the youth replies, and from the highness of his voice, Yassamin realises he is a eunuch.

Some of the guards exchange significant glances before they leave the tent; this, immediately, tells Yassamin that they are already suspicious of them, and a shiver of fear goes through her.

Li but smiles at Yassamin. "You look as if you have never seen eunuchs before, my boy?"

She shakes her head.

"Men whose desire for women has been extinguished, by Nature or by knife, are the most reliable of companions on the battlefield, I find," Li says, now to Jaffar. "Just like geldings are the most reliable of war horses, because they do not suddenly bolt off when they spy a mare in heat."

"Sun Tzu?" Jaffar offers.

"Li Lau," Li replies. "With an afterword by Fadl, son of Yahya," he says with a smile.

"You knew him?"

Li gives a barely perceptible nod as he drinks from his bowl. "Indeed, I knew him." He sets down the bowl and eyes Jaffar keenly across the table. "As well as a brother might."

"This phenomenon you saw in the heavens, my lord," Jaffar says, not meeting Li's eyes, affecting absent-mindedness. "Would you describe it to me?"

"Gladly." Li gets up and walks over to the door of the tent, lifting out its flap to reveal the western sky. "I was standing here, around this time last night. Do you see that?" he points at the constellation low in the sky.

"Orion," Jaffar murmurs.

"Orion," Li nods. "I saw a shooting star," and he traces its arc, "falling right along the blade of his sword." He turns to Jaffar, looking at him intensely. "What do you make of it, grandfather?"

Jaffar stares at the sky, still not meeting Li's eyes. Yassamin can tell that despite his act, Jaffar is genuinely ill at ease: shooting stars are not unusual around Orion in the autumn, but they never appear this late in the winter, not after the Solstice.

Finally, Jaffar looks at Li, measuring his words carefully. "It depends on the direction, my lord. Did it fall straight down, to the north or to the south? Towards Persia, China or Tibet?"

Li traces his fingers across the sky again. "I make it somewhere in between."

Jaffar shakes his head, murmuring to himself as he stares at the sky. "No..."

"No?" Li turns his head sharply towards Jaffar again, yet his expression remains unchanging.

"I was tempted to read it as the fall of a great warrior, my lord; such as the one now being mourned by all of Khorasan. But his soul has already passed, of that I am sure; therefore, the falling star cannot signify him."

Li turns his gaze to the stars once more, his voice a little lower, now. "My thoughts exactly. Whose fall do you think it might portend?"

"It might not be a person, and it might not be a fall," Jaffar murmurs. "Perhaps--"

But it is then that another star falls, exactly by the same route Li had traced; another, a third, all of them falling straight down Orion's sword. In their wake, the sky darkens so that the sword itself can no longer be seen, as if it had broken apart and fallen from the heavens.

Yassamin cannot hold back a gasp; as Li turns his head around to stare at her, the look in his eyes terrifies her, and she covers her mouth with her hand.

Li glances at the sky once more, then lets down the tent flap. "Never mind. One should never allow oneself to be shaken by omens and portents," he says derisively as he walks back to his seat.

"As a matter of fact, my lord, I agree," Jaffar says, ignoring Li's barb. "As I see it, star charts and horoscopes are but road maps. They can only give you a rough sketch of what to expect, but they are no substitute for experience. Just as one cannot know the terrain of a country without traversing it, one cannot judge the meaning of astral phenomena on one's life until he has lived through the events themselves."

Li narrows his eyes and smiles sarcastically. "In other words, it is always easier to invent meanings for events _after_ they have taken place," he says, leaning back and sipping from his bowl. "Hindsight is the most accessible of all wisdoms, available even to fools and children." He pats his lips with a handkerchief, then casts it aside. "But enough of that. What are you here for, grandfather?" he asks, directly, turning his sharp gaze towards Jaffar. "What is it that you want?"

When Jaffar does not respond, Li stands up and leans across the table, bracing his hands upon it. "I asked you a question, Jaffar, son of Yahya."

Jaffar but bursts into laughter, a laughter so loud it echoes in the tent, the waves of the sound dissipating his disguise.

As himself, he now comes to stand before Li, straightened out into his full height, full of command and might.

He leans over the table, meeting Li's eyes with his. "I might as well ask you the same thing, Bai Lau An."

Not a muscle stirs in Li's face. "You first."

"I am here to prevent a war."

Li casts down his eyes and smirks. "I am glad," he says, his eyes now twinkling a little. "You see, I came here with the same thing in mind."

Jaffar's eyes flicker back and forth as he regards Li, smiling back at him. "Once you saw the guest list, you realised the risks, and therefore appointed yourself as the official peacekeeper of the funeral, to protect Fadl's honour."

"You mistake me," Li says, shaking his head. "First of all, I would not _dare_ usurp your position as chief peacekeeper, son of Yahya," he says, now more warmly. "But you are right in that Brother Fadl and I have sworn a sacred pact to defend each other, to uphold each other's honour, a pact that lasts unto death--and beyond it. I am here to pay my respects, and to make sure no one else forgets to do so, either," he says firmly, solemnly. "I owe him that," he adds, more quietly, with his eyes cast down once more.

"I know exactly what you mean," Jaffar murmurs, reaching out to clasp his hand over Li's. "In this, you and I are the same."

Li's cheek twitches in a half-sneer; just as it seems he's about to snap something at Jaffar, he relents and clasps Jaffar's hand in his, meeting his gaze once more. "Come. I wish to show you something."

*******

**Thirty Years Ago**

**Somewhere in Anxi**

*******

"Green horses," Lau murmurs as a distinctly horse-shaped cloud slowly traverses the sky above them.

Fadl stirs, moves his arm from atop his face and peers at Lau through the yellow grass. "Green horses?" They have not eaten properly for days; perhaps Lau is delirious.

"Green horses," Lau repeats. "Red and blue horses, too, and white horses dappled with green. That's what the horses of Heaven are supposed to look like."

Fadl is too tired to scoff; too near death from hunger and thirst. They both know that lest they find a caravan or habitation soon, they are finished. They should not have been so foolish as to have released their horses; yet both he and Lau loved theirs far too much to eat them. Three days ago, in their despair, they had let out a little blood from Rakhsh and Xian for their sustenance, but even that had sickened them; that, and the terror in both horses' eyes as they'd smelled the blood. He and Lau could never be called men soft-hearted, but when it came to horses--

"What does 'Rakhsh' mean, Brother Fadl? You never told me."

"You're unusually talkative," Fadl cannot help but quip. "I'll tell you if you tell me what 'Xian' meant."

Lau smiles to himself. "'Immortal.' Not unlike the heavenly horses I just spoke of; they are celestial beings similar what you barbarians call angels, or djinn."

 _They're not even remotely the same thing!_ Fadl wants to groan, but it's futile. So he turns to his side, too weak to lean on his arm. After some squirming, he decides to rest his head on the root of the bare birch tree underneath whose nigh-nonexistent shade they're lying.

"The name 'Rakhsh' comes from an old legend. He was a saffron-coloured, giant stallion, enormously strong; only Rostam--you've heard of Rostam--could tame him. Rakhsh was also the name of my first horse, given to me by my father when I was fourteen years old. He was the greatest horse I ever had; like the Rakhsh of legend was unto Rostam, like Bucephalus was unto Alexander. When he died, I searched all over Persia to find horses that were his match, to no avail. Nevertheless, I named the best ones in his honour, hoping that the name would ennoble the horse, 'rub off on him,' as it were. So, you see, this one was Rakhsh the Fourth."

Lau lets out a loud, barking laugh. "Rakhsh the Fourth. How did he compare to the original?"

Fadl is silent for a while. Merely thinking of the loss of Rakhsh, the faithful friend he has now let go of for ever, has unleashed a tidal wave of despair within him, a despair he has tried to hold back for so long. For days, aided by the light-headedness of hunger, he has managed to force himself into concentrating on but the journey ahead, denying to himself the fact that they are dying.

For they are lost in the great desert beyond Kashgar, the place they aptly call The Land of Ruins, The Country Left Behind, The Place of No Return. And now, all of Fadl's sorrow, all of his agony has risen to his chest, choking him, stabbing him through. He cannot speak, for that would betray his feelings; he closes his eyes to prevent Lau from seeing the tears that have sprung into them.

Lau spies their glittering upon Fadl's eyelashes regardless; with a sigh, he clasps Fadl's hand, gripping it so tightly Fadl's rings cut into their flesh, but neither of them cares.

"If you should die before me, Brother Fadl," Lau murmurs, the words crawling slowly out of his mouth, with great difficulty, "I promise that I will bury you with honour. It's the least I could do."

Fadl presses Lau's hand back. "Likewise. I know how important it is to you," he says awkwardly.

So many times, he'd mocked the superstitions of the Chinese, their fear of cutting their hair so that they might go to their graves intact; so many times had he playfully jeered at their elaborate rituals for the dead. Lau had but taken all of this in his stride, and used every chance to mock Fadl for his rituals in turn, for 'sticking his arse up in the air five times a day like the busiest of boy-prostitutes'. In fact, it had become a shared joke between them for Fadl to ask Lau when he'd come to his senses and submit to Islam, and for Lau to do something pagan in response: Fadl would ask him to recite the Muslim creed, and Lau would respond with a perfectly enunciated sutra. Yet, in all seriousness, for a friend of Lau's stature, a friend who'd saved his life countless times, Fadl would be willing to perform any ritual Lau asked of him, nevermind the religion.

Fadl licks his parched lips, but it's of no use; his tongue is swollen from thirst. "So... is there anything in particular you want me to bury with you? To take with you into the afterlife? Besides your arms and armour, of course."

Lau smiles broadly, his eyes glittering with mirth. "If only you could see your face, brother mine! So earnest. It's rather sweet, actually." He takes his hand from Fadl's and lays it upon his chest; again, he stares at the sky, lost in his thoughts for a while. "A horse, I suppose," he says eventually. "Just a little sculpted one will do. You will ask me why, so I will tell you why. It's because of something I once saw as a young man, when I stood guard at the funeral of an emperor."

"You? Hired to guard an emperor?" Fadl has to laugh; at least that's better than thinking about his own death.

"Don't interrupt me, you prick."

"I _do_ apologise. Go on."

"I stood guard over the funeral procession. There's a long paved avenue that leads to the imperial burial mounds, you see; they call it the Spirit Way. It's a mile long, lined all the way with statues of tigers, dragons, fantastical beasts and fierce guardian demons. The guardians are particularly ugly, to frighten off evil spirits; big armoured bastards, all of sixteen feet tall, grinning hideously. Come to think of it, one of those fellows was as ugly as you are! Yes, I distinctly remember a Persian hook nose and the pose of a braggart."

"You wound me."

"Good. In fact, they slew three thousand guards to serve the Emperor in the hereafter. I was one of the lucky few who weren't given that honour. Another three thousand of us stood guard along the Spirit Way as the coffin and the tomb effigies were carried to the mound. That's where I saw the heavenly horses. Beautiful, life-sized terracotta statues of the most magnificent animals you ever saw, all sculpted after the Emperor's favourite horses. Some were painted green, some blue and red, some dappled with all the colours of the rainbow. And his favourite one--the statue had the horse itself buried inside--was covered in gold and gems from hoof to ear. Later, I visited one of the potters' workshops, saw how they made them. I was so impressed by them that I bought such a horse myself, for my own grave."

"They paid you _that_ well?" Fadl sputters.

Lau groans and slaps Fadl's chest. "It wasn't an imperial horse; of course not. But just as beautiful," he says and demonstrates the size of it with his hands. "About the size of a cat, it was, but exquisitely made, with lustrous green glaze all over. I still don't know how they managed to get the tail and the mane to look as if they were fluttering in the breeze, without it all breaking up in the kiln." He lets his hands fall to his stomach. "I saved up six months' wages to afford it, and it's still with my mother in Kucha."

"I understand," Fadl says, now more serious. "I promise to get it for you, if it ever comes to that. But you'd better not die on me before you've paid me back for that sword, you know."

Lau digs into his hip satchel and slaps a chainful of silver coins into Fadl's hand. "We are settled, brother."

"That still doesn't give you the right to die on me, you realise."

Lau smirks to himself, then glances up at the birch. "We might not have to. Can you see any buds?"

Fadl follows Lau's gaze. "No. It's hopeless; there's nothing edible. Unless we find a field mouse to skewer," he sighs.

With an accompanying groan, Lau gets up, kicks his knife out of his boot and grabs it with a flourish, stabbing the birch with it.

"Give me your water skin. I'm going to try something."

"Why not _your_ water skin?"

"Because yours is bigger, you pillock." Lau extends his hand. "Hand it over if you wish to drink."

Drink? Perhaps Lau is, indeed, delirious. However, Fadl relents and hands him his water skin; it's not like it matters any more.

Puzzled, he watches as Lau braids thin birch twigs together into a kind of twine and attaches the water skin to the trunk, just underneath where he'd stuck his knife. Lau takes one of the twigs and guides it from the cut into the mouth of the water skin, then leans back, his hands on his knees.

"And now?" Fadl asks.

"And now, we wait."

*******

"Birch sap," Yassamin murmurs.

"Exactly," Li Lau says with a smile. "With that kind of intelligence, your grandson will make it far in the world, yet."

Jaffar smiles back. "As far as you, my lord, one can hope."

Li turns back to the chest he has been opening with a set of complex keys. "A caravan found us. They'd discovered our horses and came to look for us. Had we not been so soft-hearted as to have let them go, we would've perished despite the sap. 'Mankind owes its success to the horse,' it is said; Fadl and I owe to them our lives."

And it is a little horse Li now lifts out of the chest, reverent; indeed, the figurine is beautiful, galloping as a real horse would, the green glaze of its flowing mane and tail glittering smaragdine in the firelight. Li holds it out for them to inspect, but does not let go of it.

"It was meant to go into _my_ grave, but by then, I will no longer be around to appreciate it. This way, I will be able to see it following a great warrior unto death; it will be more meaningful that way. In that I will have a great memory to cherish for the rest of my life; after I am gone, I will no longer remember anything. And if, indeed, there is an afterlife, Brother Fadl will remember me by this horse, know that I have not forgotten him."

Tears fill Jaffar's eyes; he clasps Li's shoulder. "You are a good man, Li Lau."

"I am a sentimental old fool, and he was a miserable old bastard," Li says with determination, lowering the horse back into the chest and locking it once again. "But as it was sentiment that saved us back then, I think Fadl would appreciate the gesture. Think of it as a private joke between us."

"I promise that will do everything in my power to ensure this horse has pride of place at his grave," Jaffar says.

"It is settled, then," Li nods at Jaffar and Yassamin.

"I must inform you, however, that I am not supposed to attend. Officially, at least," Jaffar smirks, offering Li his hand.

Li smirks back, now with a genuinely warm smile. "I doubt anything could hold back a sorcerer, should he wish to be there," he says and clasps Jaffar's hand with both of his. "But I shan't reveal your presence, worry not."

"It has been an honour, Lord Li," Yassamin pipes up, bowing deeply.

Li pats her head. "Likewise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doodle of the Jaffar vs. Lau stare-off [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1914989)


	3. Chapter 3

*******

**Afrasiyab, Samarkand**

**Morning**

*******

The day of the funeral dawns sunny, frosty and bright. The way from Afrasiyab to the Barmakid family mausoleum has been decorated with flags and standards, the procession solemn, Mohammad having forbidden weeping-women and musicians, apart from military drummers.

The mausoleum, built of whitewashed mud-brick, has always been a building simple and sparse, yet large enough for funeral ceremonies worthy of kings; its main chamber had been enlarged some years ago by Mohammad to contain his own coffin, with plenty of room left for his brothers, their wives and their children. Upon Latifa's insistence, it has been left simple on the inside as well, so that none will have cause to doubt the Barmakids' piety, the purity of their faith. Thus, the only ornament upon the inner walls consists of a circular band of prayers, etched in gold just underneath the great dome.

And it is underneath this great dome that the attendees--including the invisible Jaffar and Yassamin--now gather, within the light streaming in from the great star cut into the cupola. Fadl's large, marble sarcophagus has been opened and raised upon a dais in the middle of the chamber; the guests of honour take their places either side of the dais, men to the right and women to the left. As sombre as the occasion is, the ceremonial garb of the guests is a colourful sight: the light glitters upon the golden earrings and heaven-blue robes of the Turks, the red and gold ribbons woven into the long braids of the Mongolians, the orange robes of the Indian scholars and the tall scarlet headdresses of the Amazons. All the Chinese guests are dressed in stark white, the Chinese colour of mourning; yet their long, voluminous robes, cut of rich silk brocade, are no less dazzling a sight. Li Lau's robes in particular shine so brightly that it nearly blinds one to look upon him; the skillful embroideries of silver, gold and mother-of-pearl reflect the sunlight so brightly it is as if he himself were made of light.

Before they begin, Yassamin rushes to the dais to take a look at Fadl, she simply has to; she can feel Jaffar following closely behind. What she sees when she peeks into the sarcophagus fills her with awe: for Fadl's body has been entirely covered in gold. He is wearing his favourite armour, now gilded from cuirass to scabbard; the clothes he wears underneath are cut from pure cloth of gold. Even his very skin has been covered in gold leaf, with such expert craftsmanship that it's unlike any of the crude death masks she has hitherto seen, them often being such poor likenesses that one could never recognise the person they were supposed to depict. But this delicately worked sheet of gold is so thin that it has to have been daubed on, so perfectly does it follow Fadl's features: dipping into each and every wrinkle upon his face, following the bold jut of his nose, proud and arrogant even in death; why, even his eyelashes are covered in gold dust! In fact, he looks like a golden statue, bizarrely not unlike Jaffar's love-dolls: however, the very thought of this is so absurd that Yassamin is a little embarrassed at having made such a connection.

Jaffar chuckles fondly into her mind. _I have to say, I thought of the same thing._ He gazes upon Fadl for the last time, caressing his cheek with an invisible hand. _Fare thee well, brother mine,_ he murmurs, placing a soft kiss upon his gilded brow.

Yassamin does the same, and they glide off, like the ghosts they are; now, they can concentrate on observing the guests, Jaffar peeking into their minds here and there to eavesdrop upon their thoughts.

As Li Lau stands nearest to them, it is he Jaffar listens to first. Curiously, his thoughts are not at all as composed or as dignified as his appearance; for inwardly, he is jealous and more than a little irritated at not being the sole Chinese guest of honour here. In fact, within his thoughts, Li sounds as pettily childish as Fadl himself, Jaffar is amused to note: _I don't see why they needed to send an ambassador, when the **sovereign** of Anxi is present already,_ Li snarls within. Although, thankfully, he is far too intelligent to say this out loud; he only expresses his disdain with a frosty glare at the young ambassador standing beside him, then makes a point of reining in his thoughts and focusing on but the ceremony itself.

As she studies Li's entourage, Yassamin's eye is caught by a particularly beautiful youth; but as the boy turns in her direction, she recognises whom she is looking at: Lina, dressed in eunuch garb.

 _Yes, I noticed her, too,_ Jaffar thinks at Yassamin with great amusement. _It seems we are not the only uninvited guests here._

 _I wonder how many others there are,_ Yassamin thinks half to herself.

As Latifa and Mohammad take their places at the bier upon which the sarcophagus lies, Yassamin can swear Latifa can see her and Jaffar, her sister's second sight much stronger than her own; Latifa's smile seems to confirm this. Thankfully, it is a smile conspiratorial: she understands.

Mohammad, thank God, seems oblivious. He lets his gaze travel around the chamber, taking in the assembly. He turns to face the prayer niche set into the wall, raises his hands a little, but with modesty and restraint; when he begins to pray, his voice is formal, lower than his normal speaking tones: the voice of a king. The Muslims present follow the prostrations with him; others display--or affect--respect in their own ways.

When the prayers are over, Mohammad turns around and raises his hands once again.

"We have gathered here today to honour Fadl, son of Yahya, son of Khalid of the Barmakids. I now invite all of you to pay your respects to the deceased individually. Come, step forward, and speak whatever words you deem fit to celebrate my brother's memory."

The interpreters lean in to whisper in the guests' ears, swiftly translating Mohammad's words into half a dozen languages. Mohammad waits until they are done, then gestures for the guests to proceed in their allotted order. The smallest tribes and more distant acquaintances take their turns first, the closest friends and family will be last. Thus, Mohammad and Latifa retreat to the back of the room to watch.

The first celebrant to step onto the dais is the warrior-queen Mohammad had referred to as but _"an Amazon, from the northern steppes;"_ even he was unable to pronounce her name. Nevertheless, she is the most formidable sight among all the warlords gathered here. She is covered in leather and metal armour from head to toe and her towering, pointed scarlet headdress makes her the tallest figure in the room; her arms are covered all over in tattoos of rolling clouds and curly-antlered, somersaulting deer. In her left hand, she carries a fierce lance, decorated with bright red plumes; with her right, she holds out an exquisitely wrought, heavy gold pendant depicting a goddess grasping a pair of lions and poppies in her hands. She speaks in a voice strong, clear, solemn, then nods to the nondescript man standing beside her.

__

__

The man turns to the crowd and translates her words in broken Persian:

"I, Queen Xaosharai, gift unto this Prince the pendant we honour our royal eaglers with. For it was with his eagle's eyes that this Fadl, son of Yahya once saved our kingdom, defending our walls with great valour, and for this, we owe him our eternal gratitude. Fare thee well, Eagle Prince, and may you enjoy all of The Great Mother's bounty in the heavenly meadows."

As the queen places the pendant upon Fadl's heart, the more pious Muslims, predictably, whisper in disgust at this paganism; yet none dare raise their voices, let alone challenge such a well-armed queen and her equally well-armed handmaidens. Mohammad has said outright that he will tolerate other faiths, as long as their adherents remain loyal and respectful to him, and that the pagans, too, are under his special protection. Emboldened by this proof of Mohammad standing by his word, other guests are now less afraid to offer to Fadl their own traditional grave-gifts. Offerings of Mongolian eagle feathers and turquoise rings follow other solemn speeches, them in turn followed by Avestan litanies and Sanskrit mantras; these in turn are accompanied by libations, hymns, fire.

Some of the faces behind Mohammad grow dull and weary from boredom, some of the young princes shifting upon their feet; some faces, however, Jaffar notices, grow dark with anger instead. By the time the Chinese ambassador lights incense and burns ghost money in Fadl's honour, Jaffar can _feel_ the waves of outrage radiating from the back of the chamber: the fourteen-year-old mind of Saif al-Din in particular is in turmoil, hot with barely contained rage at his uncle Fadl--whom he had considered a personal hero, the perfect Muslim warrior--being subjected to such heathen defilements.

Finally, only Li Lau and the Barmakids themselves are left. Even the sleepiest of attendees awaken from their torpor as Li, carrying the green horse, makes his way to the sarcophagus and steps into the light: it's as if he illuminates the room with his noble bearing, his dignity alone. The sun has climbed high into the sky, glancing so brightly off his robes that it yields unto his form a halo, gifts unto all of his movements a glow: as if a mighty angel had come down from the heavens, to ascend the hero from his grave.

Li takes the horse between his hands and raises it up to the light. Silent, he lets everyone gaze upon it, marvel at the play of light upon its green glaze; high above his head does he raise it, framing it with the shining sky.

"Only the greatest of warriors are allowed to ride such mighty horses, even in the afterlife," he begins. "For the horses of Heaven--"

"Enough!"

It is a loud, ugly noise that has interrupted him: the cry of a boy whose voice is just breaking, a boy who has now stepped forward and unsheathed his sword, holding it high with both hands. Latifa screams and tries to stop Saif al-Din, but in three quick strides, Saif has made it to the dais, slashing at Li with his sword. Li, however, reacts quickly, ducking into the sarcophagus so that instead of his head, Saif manages to strike off only the leather band holding his topknot. Li's long hair half blinds him as it falls over his face a veil; nevertheless, using Saif's astonishment to his advantage, he manages to stun the boy with a kick before he can resume his attack.

When Li flips up his head, his face is terrible to behold: red but inhumanly calm in its fury, his eyes burning like embers. With a loud cry, still clutching the green horse under his left arm, he pushes Saif back, back, walking him backwards until the boy's back hits a pillar, the sword falling from his hand; there, Li pins Saif, his right forearm pressed over his throat.

"I wish you no harm, boy," he says, loud, the voice of a general. "Give this up, now. Do not shame the memory of a great man with such foolishness."

Saif spits in his face, yet Li does not move an inch. "Shame?" Saif cries, his voice trembling, high. "You pollute my uncle's body with your pagan rites, dare call him 'brother,' and yet call _me_ shameful? Father, do something!" he shouts over his shoulder at Mohammad.

However, Mohammad is more furious than Saif and Li put together, the air itself rippling with the black waves of his shame, his indignation. "Who are you calling 'father'?" he says, refusing to even look at Saif. "You are no son of mine. For no son of mine would bring such shame upon his family, upon the entire nation of Persia. This day was meant to be a day upon which all nations might come together, _peacefully,_ and you, you little _brat,_ would turn it into an all-out _war?_ " Mohammad's voice is trembling from rage, dripping thick with venom. "No," he croaks hoarsely, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. "No, this is no son of mine. Great Jiedushi, you are free to deal with him as you please; slay him, maim him, take him as your slave, as long as you take him _out of my sight!_ "

Saif's face is white from horror, from shock; from his father, he looks to his mother, who is swaying from emotion, yet there is no sympathy in her eyes, either: only a dread disappointment, a crushing sense of failure, even disgust that her son should be capable of something like this.

Trembling, Saif turns to Li Lau, who is still looking at him with terrible calm: more statue than man. Trembling, ever trembling, Saif comes to a decision: with his right hand, he fumbles for his dagger, draws it--

\--yet, as he tries to stab Li, the blade glances off the horse, then clatters onto the floor as Latifa blasts it out of his hand with a rune.

Li looks at the dagger, then at the horse, then back at Saif. With a disgusted snarl, he gives Saif's throat one more shove with his arm, turns around and walks away, back to the dais and the sarcophagus, to continue with the ceremony. Even as he hears the knife being picked up from the floor, hears Latifa crying at him in warning, Li doesn't veer from his path, keeping steady his steps: for he has calculated all of his movements in advance, having judged that right at that moment, Saif would strike at him with knife in hand. The very moment he hears Saif's boot descend upon the floor a foot from him, taking off in a great leap, Li quickly twirls around, leaping to safety behind the sarcophagus--

\--and now that Li is no longer there to break his fall, Saif crashes straight into the sarcophagus. There is but a sickening crunch as his skull breaks open upon its sharp corner, cracking as if it were but an egg; Saif al-Din, son of Mohammad the Barmakid, is dead before he even hits the floor.

With a wail, Latifa rushes beside her son: with shaking hands, she caresses him, whispering prayers as his spirit leaves his body, surging out through the star in the ceiling. Sobbing, trembling, she takes her veil and wraps his head with it, covers the ugly gash that had taken the life of her firstborn son; she kisses his hands, bathing them with her tears.

Yassamin's heart breaks for Latifa; she wishes and she wishes she could comfort her sister now, but daren't move, lest she reveal her presence. She, too, is sobbing--how strange it is to weep without the heat and wetness of tears, in but spirit form!--and can feel the shock of Jaffar himself right behind her, he just as horrified as she is, just as appalled at not being able to do anything so as not to give them away.

Still clutching the horse under his arm, Li kneels beside Latifa, grief flickering in his own eyes. "I am so sorry, my lady. There are no words to describe how sorry, no words to describe the depth of my shame. For this is exactly what I came here to prevent; yet I have failed you, failed all of you utterly. Punish me," he murmurs, lowering his head. "For I am his murderer."

"No, my lord. He was his own murderer," Latifa says with determination, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "He brought it upon himself," she continues, shaking her head. "You tried to stop him, yet his willfulness--" and now, she punches the boy's chest with her fist--"I always _told you_ you'd get yourself killed doing something like this, you stupid, stupid child! I--" but now, she can no longer speak, breaking down in sobs once more.

Quiet, Mohammad steps up to the dais, taking in the scene. He barely glances at the corpse of Saif, unable to bear it; he beckons for the guards to remove the body, then gestures for Li to stand up. "Pray, continue with your speech, my lord. It is exactly because he, _and other fools like him_ ," he says pointedly, "would stop you that you need to finish it. Do what you came here to do, Jiedushi," he says with a nod, then glares fiercely around the room. "And should anyone try and stop him this time, _I will personally hunt him down, rip out his heart and slaughter his entire family._ Is that understood?"

Everyone in the room is silent.

"Good." Mohammad reaches down for Latifa, more tenderly, now. "Come, my love. We will pray for him together, later. Come."

Li takes his place beside the coffin once more, now speaking more quietly, only to Fadl himself. Finally, he takes the horse from underneath his arm, smiling at the scratch the horse had taken from Saif's knife. "It looks like I was indeed fated to bring you this horse, does it not? You always envied my horses, and finally wanted to have your way, is that it? Well, here you are, you persistent old prick," he smiles to himself and gently, lowers the horse between Fadl's legs, giving it one last pat. "Hope you enjoy the ride, Brother Fadl. I'll see you soon."

The room remains quiet, all of its occupants pale. Jaffar can feel the thought in everyone's minds right now: will this trigger a war between Persia and China? Even if it's clear that Mohammad does not wish for this to happen, wanting to keep this tragedy private, there are plenty of others who would jump at the chance to use this as an excuse for war. To demand blood for blood.

There is a glint of metal above the sarcophagus: for Li has drawn his sword and taken it to his shoulder, _blood for blood._

"Gladly shall I atone for this with my life's blood, if it will prevent a war," Li says boldly, nobly. He lets out a little laugh, glancing at Fadl. " _'To everything its fate._ ' Never did I know, Brother Fadl, that you were to be mine."

"No!" Mohammad cries, raising his hand. "No more bloodshed, I beg of you. My brother's grave is polluted enough."

Yet, with a madman's grin, his eyes wide, Li grips the hilt of his sword with both hands and brings it to his jugular. The muscles of his arms shift underneath his silks--

And in that moment, there is a bright flash, as if a bolt of lightning: with a sharp crack, the blade of Li's sword breaks apart at three points, the pieces shattering completely as they hit the floor.

Li stares at the glittering shards of metal at his feet, at Fadl, then in the exact direction of Yassamin and Jaffar, as if he had known they were standing there all along: for he has recognised the vision they had seen in the stars, has realised that only Jaffar could have done this.

Of course, this _is_ exactly what has happened, Jaffar having struck the sword with a rune; presently, Jaffar and Yassamin are coiled tight with tension, not knowing whether they have just revealed their presence, or whether the attendees will indeed believe that divine intervention has been at work.

Thankfully, Li is too sensible to reveal what has happened, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with him.

With a great sigh, he lets go of his broken sword, gives Fadl his farewell kiss and walks off quietly, out of the mausoleum, and no one dares stop him.

Only Jaffar and Yassamin follow him out, to make sure of his safe passage.

Jaffar brushes Li's shoulder, gently, rendering himself half visible, only long enough for Li to recognise him. He gestures for Li to follow him, and thankfully, Li does, too tired to resist. Wasting no time, Jaffar renders Li, too, invisible, and reciting the spell of _the rolling up of the earth_ , Yassamin transports them to the Blue House as swiftly as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

*******

**The Blue House**

**Samarkand**

*******

In a guest bedroom of the Blue House, Lau sleeps: a sleep light, restless, full of dreams of Fadl and of times past.

*******

**Thirty years ago**

**Somewhere in Anxi**

*******

"Son of a bitch!" Fadl's anguished cry rings over the battlements. "Why did you shoot, you stupid bastards?! I'm on your side!" he screams, clutching at his leg, now pierced by a Tang crossbow bolt.

"That one was for my sister," Lau mutters under his breath before he reloads his crossbow and peeks over the parapet. The battle itself is over, only dead bodies littering the hill upon which the Tang fortress stands; only half a dozen of the Persian reinforcements sent to help the garrison seem to have survived. Unfortunately, that hook-nosed braggart who had made advances at Xiao is among them; at least the wound should now incapacitate him enough to keep him from pursuing her.

*******

**Some weeks later**

*******

"Why did you rescue me?" Lau pants, clutching at his wounded arm, his horse and his helmet having fallen off the cliff upon which he and Fadl now lie crouched.

"Because your sister would kill me if I hadn't."

Lau groans and throws back his head. "Unwise. For if you get her with child, I'm going to personally rip off your balls and feed them to your horse."

"Oh, worry not. Methinks she would do the exact same thing, should that happen."

Lau harrumphs. "True."

Fadl helps Lau sit up. "Save your breath for now; the men should be able to find us before nightfall."

"Unless the tigers find us first."

"Well," Fadl glances down at the steep, craggy ravine that yawns underneath them, "you need a fresh pelt for a new helmet anyway."

"It's not the helmet I'm sorry for." He hopes Bao didn't have to suffer long, hopes that he had broken his neck immediately upon the rocks, and isn't still lying in agony at the bottom of the ravine somewhere.

"I'm sorry," Fadl murmurs. "I'll give you one of my own horses once we get to Balkh."

Lau scoffs; he knows what Fadl is thinking, and not all of those thoughts are noble. "Don't think you can buy her off me."

"I don't think Xiao would allow herself to be bought. Do you?"

"She may dress like a boy but she is still a little girl, still innocent, you realise. I don't want her marrying a mercenary, spending her life out here in the wilderness, losing her husband when she's still young. I'd rather have her grow old with a prosperous merchant--not a travelling one, mind you; someone in Chang'an. Someone she can have lots of fat children with. A good, honest, decent man who isn't as promiscuous, as angry, as suicidally stupid as--"

"I know," Fadl sighs, gazing into the ravine.

"Well, then."

"How about we let her decide?" Fadl asks, still not looking at Lau.

"Don't--"

But it is then that they hear the approach of cavalry, can see the red flags of the Tang emerging from beyond the cliff, followed by the orange tiger pelts wrapped about the officers' helmets; familiar figures greet them with open arms, cries of celebration, smiles of relief. 

But among them, the most strange of all is the sight of Bao: a Bao very much alive, and very much bewildered.

"Unbelievable!" Lau exclaims, leaping up to caress Bao's head. The horse seems far too agitated to ride, flicking his eyes and ears still, yet he is otherwise unharmed.

"We found him underneath the cliff, sire," Wei explains. "He'd slid down into a vast bank of soft sand; he was halfway buried in it, so deep that we were afraid it was quicksand at first. We inspected him for damage, but as you can see, there are only scratches."

"Kuan Yin be praised," Lau murmurs, caressing Bao's neck, mane, flanks.

"Oh, and we found this," Wei says and hands Lau his helmet. "You can imagine our spirits were crushed when we found no trace of you, sire, and how lifted they are, now that we have found you again."

"Unbelievable," Lau murmurs again, brushing sand off the tiger skin adorning the helmet.

Fadl leans in to whisper into Lau's ear. "I think I know what happened. I'll tell you once we're back at camp."

Lau looks at Fadl curiously, but doesn't say a word.

Later that night, Fadl shows Lau an amulet he is carrying around his neck: a dark red gemstone set in a simple oval metal band, the band itself so worn and dark it's hard to say whether it's bronze or silver.

"As bizarre as it may seem, I am certain it was this jewel that saved you and Bao. My brother is a magician, you see. He made a few of these and I, well, let's just say I _borrowed_ this one before I left Baghdad. Life-sustaining amulets, he called them--amulets that could reverse some life-threatening situations, if you but wished hard enough. Death by falling was one of them, death by drowning another, death by burning a third. I hadn't used it until now, didn't truly believe in it, but held onto it regardless, just in case there was something to it after all. And it seems that today, as I saw you about to fall, it read my thoughts, and, well."

Lau blinks. His thoughts? Fadl cared that much for his safety, valued his life that much?

"Apparently, it can only save you from each one of these things but once." He hands Lau the amulet.

"So," Lau murmurs, turning the amulet in the campfire's light. "You used up one of your three wishes for my sake--" but then he catches himself, smiling, shaking his head. "No, for Xiao's sake." He regards Fadl with genuine astonishment, amusement. "You truly love her that much?"

Fadl does not answer that; he but stares at his hands.

*******

**Kucha**

**Years later**

*******

His hands burning from the still-hot wood and stone, Lau digs his way frantically through the incandescent ruins of his family house. He can smell his hair burning; his face is scorched by the heat and his gloves are in tatters, but he cannot stop now. He is nauseous from the smoke and the fumes, but he must find her, must, must. Perhaps, perhaps Xiao managed to escape after all? She was always so resourceful, always so clever; the way she used to always slip away from home on her little adventures--

Yet the skeleton he now finds, the heavy torque around its neck identifying the corpse as Xiao's--this crushes all of his hopes once and for all. He collapses into the piles of hot ashes and blackened wood, collapses sobbing over the remains of his little sister, choking from the smoke. He hopes that he will die here, too, die from the poisonous fumes. Why, why did he not let her marry Fadl last month, leave with him when everyone else had left, knowing the city was doomed? Had she gone off with him to Balkh, this would not have happened. She would've worn Fadl's amulet, and no fire could have harmed her. She would've, perhaps, led a long and happy life after all. And most importantly, she would not have died hating Lau, the last words they'd exchanged having been so full of bitterness.

He sobs and he sobs until his world blackens, blackens into the dust and the ash and the soot, dimming; he prays it now darkens for him for the final time.

*******

**Balkh**

*******

A bearded hermit in Balkh, Lau spends his years, studying Buddhist manuscripts in its frosty temples.

They ask him when he will shave his head, when he will take up the orange robes, when he will finally become a monk; he never replies. He speaks so little that they think his tongue has been cut off; indeed, for all intents and purposes, Xiao's death had done that. For what reason does he have for speaking, or even living any longer, if his mother, father, sister--the entire Bai family that had once ruled all of Kucha--is dead?

The Buddha tells him, over and over, that all of them had been but illusions to begin with, that all of what he thinks of as reality consists of but emptiness. Thus, with the aid of long fasts, torturous sittings with himself, with long recitations of mantras does he try to empty his mind of his loved ones, to himself become empty of all feeling, all memory, all desire.

Until one summer morning, his meditations are interrupted: cut short by a sudden crashing noise behind him, the sound of tearing silks, of women screaming in the street. The smell of burning buildings, the sound of alarm bells being rung, the thunder of hooves all across the city.

Chaos.

He leaps up from the balcony he has been meditating on, turns around and behold: marauding barbarians have stormed into the temple. He can only see three, but the noises tell him there are more.

Before the marauders can see him, he has slipped away into his cell.

His swords have lain untouched for so long that his fingertips leave marks in the dust of the scabbards. Yet, the muscles of his arms still remember exactly how to draw the swords with sweeping arcs, his feet how to shift his weight and how to steady his body for battle, all of his senses now sharpening to listen out for the enemy.

He turns, sword in each hand, and for the first time in years, he has found calm. The emptiness is filled, quickened with the tumult of noise, death, blood; grinning, his feet light, he leaps into the fray with delight.

*******

**The next day**

**Balkh castle**

*******

"You saved my city," Fadl says to him when they take their seats upon his royal platform in the great hall, both of them still dusty from battle, still covered in crusted mud and blood.

Clasping Lau's shoulder with his hand, Fadl studies him, and in Fadl's eyes, there is no longer any hatred, any blame left from the years past: there is even forgiveness, perhaps. "We are even."

Lau lets out a laugh, but it's only half ironic. "I am glad," he says, awkwardly clasping Fadl's shoulder in turn.

"Come," Fadl says and pulls off his dirty gloves, slapping them on the small table before them. "Bring milk," he says to a maidservant as he washes his hands in the bowl of rosewater she offers him. "And pour it in that bowl, yes, the big ceremonial one," he says and points to a great golden dish hung upon the wall behind them. "For if this is not a great occasion, I don't know what is."

"Milk?" Lau raises his eyebrow as he washes his own hands in turn. "I must confess I'd prefer something a _little_ stronger tonight."

As the maidservant pours the milk reverently into the great bowl, Fadl but smiles and shakes his head. "It will soon be stronger than any wine," he says, rolling up his sleeve and taking out his dagger.

When Lau realises what Fadl means, he is astounded, but happily so. Fadl means to make them blood brothers? After all that's happened? Quietly, he rolls up his own sleeve, watching in a daze as Fadl makes a small cut on his left palm and then squeezes his hand into a fist, pursing a few drops of blood into the milk. When he hands Lau the knife, Lau's fingers slip a little, and he makes a cut larger than intended upon his own palm. Yet even as he squeezes his hand into a fist and mixes his own blood into the milk, Lau remains silent, unable to find words.

"I thought you'd be pleased," Fadl says, regarding him quietly.

"I am." Lau stares at the milk, at the scarlet drops now mingling in its white. "It's only that I wasn't expecting it."

Fadl nods. "We might be dead tomorrow. It was about time, don't you think?" he offers his hand to Lau.

"It is." Lau nods and clasps Fadl's hand, pressing their palms together.

"Brothers," Fadl says, now smiling, squeezing Lau's hand tightly as Lau finally responds to his smile.

"Unto death, and beyond it," Lau says, firm, meaning every word as their mingled blood drips into the bowl.

They drink the milk, and indeed, the toast of brotherhood, of love, of bitterness washed away is headier than any wine.

*******

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

**The present**

*******

The green horse quickens in Lau's hands, becomes alive: it grows, becomes the size of a real horse. He is upon its back and together, they ride across the sky, the meadows of the clouds. He looks for Brother Fadl, for he has to bring him this horse, but his hands are sticky, dirty. Soiled, filthy. He looks down at his hands, and they are covered in ashes, in the greasy ashes of Xiao; covered in blood and bone shards they are, in the skull fragments of a boy, a boy far too young to die--

Lau wakes up screaming. He lifts his hands to his face, and they are clean, perfectly clean of blood and brain and ash, the moonlight silvering the scar upon his palm.

"What is the matter, Lord Li?" A voice asks him from behind the door in accented Persian, a voice soft, the voice of a woman.

"Nothing. Nothing," Lau says, wiping cold sweat from his face.

"May I enter?" the voice asks.

"Mmm," Lau mumbles and sits up on the bed; he doubts he will get back to sleep for a while yet.

Yassamin opens the door, but out of modesty, does not step inside. Standing upon the threshold, she tucks her hands into the sleeves of her thick night-robe.

"I can brew you a sleeping potion." Before Lau can protest, she continues, firm. "Please, my lord, do not consider it a concession to weakness; good sleep is essential to good health. And I--we--would rather you were in full health as you continued upon your journey."

Lau sighs and glances at her from the corner of his eye, trying to smile a little to be polite. "Thank you," he says.

Yassamin smiles back and nods. "But a moment."

Indeed, it only takes a moment for her to return with a bowlful of strong herbal tea; Lau suspects she has used magic to brew it so quickly. The tea is bitter but heavily sweetened with honey; as the heat of it spreads into his limbs, Lau already knows he will sleep well tonight.

"That is indeed... indeed strong," he mumbles after he finishes it in swift gulps, already half asleep.

Yassamin smiles, fluffs up his pillow and raises his blanket; like a babe, he allows himself to be tucked in.

"Good night, my lord," she says, caressing his hair tenderly with her hand--or does she? He can no longer tell; so tired, so relaxed is he from the tea, from all that has happened over the past few days. So, so tired...

The green horse glitters smaragdine underneath him as they gallop across the clouds. A meadow opens before him, a meadow green and wide: a sparkling fountain, trees full of fruit surround a golden carpet upon which Brother Fadl lies, waving to him in greeting.

"I brought you your horse," Lau says and dismounts, handing to Fadl the reins.

"That's very kind of you," Fadl smiles, and Lau has never seen Fadl smile like that, has never seen him as relaxed and as happy. "And I am so very happy to see you, Brother Lau."

Lau sees the bottle of wine and the bowls laid out beside Fadl. Yet, Fadl does not invite him to drink, for some reason.

Fadl raises his hand, shaking his head, still smiling gently. "It is not your time yet, my friend," he says. "But when you do arrive, we will have all the time in the world: then, we will sit and drink, make merry and tell tales for all eternity."

"Fare thee well, then, Brother Fadl," Lau says and bows. "Until we meet again."

"Until we meet again, Brother Lau," Fadl says, waves his hand and behold: another green horse now stands beside them. "He is for you. And now, you must hurry home. Go!"

The next moment, Lau is upon the horse, the wind fragrant in his hair, the sun gentle upon his face, and he is at peace.

When he wakes up in the morning, there is a green terracotta horse beside his bed: yet this one is pristine, just like the original had been before Saif had struck it with his knife. Lau has to pinch himself to make sure this is no dream: when he tells Jaffar and Yassamin of it, they swear they did not bring him the horse, know nothing of it. Yet the looks they exchange tell Lau everything he needs to know: that this truly is a miracle, not to be questioned.

Thus, he doesn't; when he is back in his camp, he packs the horse into his trunk and takes it home, to follow him to the grave.


	5. Chapter 5

*******

**New Lesbos**

**Immediately after the funeral**

*******

"So? How did it go?" Zainab asks as she arrives to greet Lina, grinning wildly, her jewellery chiming and her silks fluttering as she dances around her. "What did you learn from the Chinese ladies?"

Lina looks pointedly at the clothes she is wearing: her own familiar pageboy attire, that is, instead of the painstakingly elaborate costume they'd sent her to Afrasiyab in. "Well, mistress. As you can no doubt imagine, this outfit did not exactly help me blend in with the ladies."

"I _was_ wondering about that! Why _are_ you wearing that, my sweet?" Zainab asks, unable to disguise her disappointment.

"Because there was no such thing as Li Lau's harem."

Indeed, as Lina now tells Zainab, she had barely escaped with her life. For only after she had arrived at Afrasiyab in full Chinese dress, had she found out about Li Lau's custom of never travelling with women. In her panic, she had attempted to mingle with the other Chinese delegates' wives and concubines instead, barely understanding their dialect at all: thankfully, their strict court etiquette had allowed her to stay silent, to but keep her head lowered for the few hours she had spent among them.

As soon as she had been able to do so, she had run off to Latifa to beg her for help. Latifa had been but amused, entertained by this welcome break in the tedium of court receptions and ceremonies; she had been more than happy to conspire with Lina in this little spy adventure of hers. It had taken them more than an hour to change Lina, to unravel her costume and to wash out all the wax from her hair; thankfully, Lina had had the foresight to bring her own clothes with her. Thus, for most of her time at Afrasiyab, she had but posed as one of Latifa's eunuchs, supposedly a recent addition to her retinue.

Later, the evening before the funeral, Lina had stunned one of Li Lau's eunuchs with the aid of a sleeping potion Latifa had given her, had locked the boy up in one of the storerooms and borrowed his suit, so that she could attend the ceremony in his stead. This so that she could observe the Chinese more closely, from among their own ranks; Li had given her a strange look, but had thankfully been too emotional and too caught up in the events to investigate her presence further.

After Lina has finished telling Zainab of everything that had taken place at the funeral itself, Zainab blanches. "Freyja almighty; I am glad I wasn't there! Oh, mouse-mouse, I should never have sent you there," she sighs and hugs Lina tight, kissing her hair. "That I even got you back in one piece--oh, can you ever forgive me?"

"I don't know," Lina smiles and hugs her back; "I quite enjoyed it, rather. The thrill of surviving, I mean!" she laughs and pulls back from Zainab's embrace. "Oh, and by the way," she says, reaching into her pocket. "I did not return empty-handed."

"Oh?" Zainab wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Close your eyes, mistress," Lina says gently.

Zainab humours her, standing very still, listening curiously at the snap of a small box being opened. Whatever it is, it smells very pleasant; indeed, it seems to be a cosmetic of some kind, since now Lina removes Zainab's sapphire brow-band and starts daubing the fragrant substance onto her forehead, seemingly with a brush of some kind.

"You _will_ return it, won't you, mouse-mouse?" Zainab asks, a little nervous at Lina's thievery.

"I promise," Lina says, still painting her forehead; it's difficult for Zainab to stay still, what with the tickling of the brush and the undeniable eroticism of her beloved caressing her with such care. For long moments, Lina keeps working upon her like a true miniaturist until finally, the brush leaves Zainab's forehead and she can hear the box clicking shut again.

"There, all done--no, don't open your eyes just yet," Lina says as she leads Zainab to her mirror. "Now. What do you think, mistress?"

Zainab opens her eyes only to discover that upon her forehead now glitters a veritable masterpiece: a stylised flower in the latest Tang fashion. It's been painted with only two colours, yet Lina has used these colours masterfully, in incredibly varied hues: a deep, rich red yielding shades all the way from a profound scarlet to a blushing pink and everything in between; the other colour is some kind of curious substance that's iridescent, pearlescent yet glitters not unlike frost. Crushed pearls and powdered mother-of-pearl cannot yield such a sparkling effect; for a moment, she wonders if it is metallic, but it seems more like a ground gemstone, crystalline. The four diamond-shaped petals of this flower unfold across her brow in simple, yet immensely elegant furls. In the very middle of her forehead, the colour is at its deepest: a stark, dark blood-red, which then delicately fades towards the petal-tips until it blends seamlessly into the colour of her own skin.

"But this is incredible, my love!" she murmurs, tilting her head this way and that, more appreciative of Lina's artistry than the enhancement of her own beauty. "So, _this_ is the way they do it, then?" she asks, remembering how many times they'd tried to paint a similar diamond-petalled flower onto Lina's forehead and how many times they'd had to start over, the final result having looked hopelessly, barbarically crude in comparison to this.

"It's the paints themselves, their composition; the admixture contained some kind of new substance that makes it much easier to fade and shade than our own rouge. I asked Latifa about it, but she didn't know what the magic ingredient could be, either; but she said that if anyone could identify it, that person would be Jaffar."

"Well, we must ask him, then," Zainab says, still tilting her head, astonished at how the colour of the painting changes depending on how light hits it.

"The second part is something intangible--namely, the the technique. As you know, I am but a calligrapher, not a miniaturist; my skill at painting is nowhere near that of their maids. But I was thinking that... well, mistress, with your permission, I could teach this art to Durga; just imagine what _she_ could do with it!"

"How she could refine it, yes..." Zainab murmurs, still as enamoured with the effect as a child watching fireflies. Finally, she blinks, bursting into such a smile that it makes her entire face beautifuller still, the petals of the flower now coming alive as she speaks to Lina with animated delight.

"Thank you so much, my love," she says, taking both Lina's hands in hers and kissing them. "You've brought me a gift beyond anything I could've hoped for--not only a precious substance, but an exquisite art. How can I ever repay you?"

Lina laughs and wraps her arms around Zainab's neck, pressing their foreheads together, so that now both of them bear upon their brows a flower scarlet. "I can think of a few ways," she says, sinking her fingers into Zainab's hair and pressing her hips into the softness of hers.

"I like the sound of that," Zainab purrs against Lina's lips, rocking her hips against Lina's in turn.

"Oh, you just wait until I show you, mistress mine," Lina chuckles softly, taking her mouth in a kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

*******

**Three weeks later**

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

**The love chamber**

**Sunset**

*******

"And here, I thought it would be easier," Yassamin says quietly as she sits upon the sill of her great window, gazing out into the darkening valley now made darker and greyer by the melting snow. "Once they had all gone. But somehow, it's worse."

Jaffar sits opposite her, leaning his bare head against the glass, gazing at her quietly. He feels as she feels: for now that the assembly is over and the last of the guests have left, there is no more work left for the Barmakid family to distract themselves with; thus, they are all left with but their sorrow. So long, they had prepared for Fadl's funeral that he didn't even seem gone until now, he having still been at the centre of everyone's minds for months after his passing. Now, they truly feel the empty space left behind by his loss, still feeling their way around this new gap in their worlds; all of them having to rearrange their thoughts, habits, actions into a new order: one without a Fadl in it.

And as if this pain, this emptiness were not enough, it is now made even greater by the loss of a child, a child who had meant so much to Mohammad, to Latifa: as their eldest son, Saif al-Din had been the one they had been grooming for princedom, intending for him to inherit Samarkand's governorship after Mohammad's death. There had even been talk of him, perhaps, taking over the rulership of those southern regions Fadl had relinquished: thus, his kingdom might have been the entirety of Khorasan, from northern Sogdia to the Hindu Kush.

Yet, to think of it, the self-same hot blood, the self-same stubborn foolishness, the self-same violent rages that had so troubled Fadl's life had destroyed Saif's, before it had even begun! And thus, those dread words, _'the curse of the Barmakids,'_ had once again been repeated in hushed whispers across the land.

Latifa and Mohammad do have other sons, but they are still very young; no one knows if they will even make it to adulthood, yet. Thus, even the thought of Anwar stepping in to become the scion of the new generation had been on Mohammad's mind, even if he'd been too proud to express it to Jaffar in words. Yet, Jaffar had heard that thought nevertheless, and had been terrified of it, Yassamin likewise; the crushing strain of rulership, its perilousness had been the exact reason they had left Baghdad, the exact thing they had wanted to protect their children from. Why, the very idea of it would terrify Anwar even more, should he be told of it! He is a dancer, an artist, a scholar, not at all a warrior, let alone a king; even viziership might be devastating to someone as delicate as he. If viziership, and then kingship, had driven the father mad, what chance would the son have, seeing as he had inherited his father's sensitivity, his spirit-gifts, _and_ his mother's nervousness, her tendency towards melancholy?

It was after having heard this thought that Jaffar and Yassamin had left Afrasiyab today, after having spent some days there to console Mohammad and Latifa: it's far safer for them and their children that they lie low once again, let the world think they do not exist.

"We only have each other," Yassamin murmurs, looking at Jaffar. "And _must_ only have each other. Oh, Jaffar, we have been too careless, living out here so openly. How many must already know who we are? You must, you simply _must_ cast a glamour over the house, over all of us, so that people will not suspect us."

Jaffar sighs, gazing up at the first stars appearing in the darkening sky. Yassamin knows, just as well as he does, that he had cast such a spell over them the very first day they'd arrived here. Thus, he does not know what to respond to satisfy her. "I already have"? "I will make it stronger"? And in any case, Yassamin is but thinking out loud, only giving words to what they are both thinking. Whatever he said right now would not help much and might, at worst, only make her more nervous. Thus, he decides to do what's best for them both: to change the subject entirely.

He clasps her hand. "But, my love, you're freezing," he says, taking both of her hands into his, rubbing warmth into them. "Come to bed."

She avoids his eyes, still lost in her own thoughts, her eyes brimming with tears. They have not made love for the past few weeks at all: after the funeral, they had been too shocked by Saif's death, too busy playing host to Lau and making sure he could leave Samarkand safely. After he'd left, she had had a menstrual period so painful that all she could do in bed was to curl up in his arms, exhausted from the agony and blood loss.

"I am sorry," she says, and her shame at her own misery, her own uselessness radiates off her, dark and heavy and cold. It was she who had first suggested that they retreat here after their bath today, yet now, it feels to her as if desire were eluding her grasp, as if passion were something she needed to excavate from underneath heavy rocks. She is so weighed down, so heavy with sorrow still, and she hates it. She knows that only love, only the act of love can dissipate her melancholy, yet why is it so difficult for her to stir herself, to lift herself into a mood of love? Why is it so hard for her to reach out for something that she _knows_ will make her happy, his love always setting her body aglow, washing her soul clean, filling her with light?

But at least Jaffar is there. Always Jaffar. Always--and now she is weeping openly in his arms, and he is carrying her to bed, kissing each sob, kissing each tear. And with each kiss, he is wiping away her shame: with his lips, with his breath he is sanctifying her sorrow, accepting it as but a part of life, murmuring to her of how it is but natural of her, showing to her the sorrow in his own heart, no less deep than hers. "Imagine what we would be without our sorrow," he murmurs against her lips, against her breasts. "What beasts. What fate awaits those who kill their feelings," and they both think of Fadl, of Saif, of Jaffar's own past self, and their foolishness in that regard. "How the depth of sorrow one can feel is the same as the depth of love one can feel," he says, and she knows this for the truth, her heart aching with both.

And in the aching, in the cleaving open of the heart by sorrow is its healing; thus, he pours his love into her through this opening and she surges out to meet him, her arms wrapped around his neck, pouring words of love from her lips into his mouth, he drinking them from her in turn. She, too, kisses his heart as she pulls off his shirt, yearning to feel its beating against her lips. Her cold hands, she warms in the heat between his thighs, and he lets her; he kisses warmth into her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her nipples hardened from her having sat too long beside the window. For long moments, he but holds her close, hugs her tight; they cling to each other, their shared warmth, reminding themselves and each other that they are real.

Jaffar lets out a little huffing laugh into her shoulder. "Remember what I promised to give you, my dear." He begins to kiss his way down her neck, chest, belly. "Surely you have not forgotten?"

She ruffles his hair and chuckles, her tongue-tip peeking past her teeth. "Why do you _think_ I asked you to come up here tonight, my love? I am but collecting." She raises her eyebrow playfully. " _If_ you can truly manage six. If your tongue starts to fall off, I will be satisfied with three; for I am nothing if not a lenient mistress."

"'If!' 'If?!' He laughs and yanks her back upon the bed so that she yelps, throwing her legs over his shoulders, giving her cunny a slap to get her to yelp again. "I am a man of my word," he says and begins to rub at her cunny, "and if six will not drive you mad enough, I--mmph!"

But she has already pressed his face into her cunny. "Get to work," she laughs and drums at his back with her feet, squeaking and shrieking as he does exactly that.

And it is in his pleasure of pleasuring her that she basks, this the greatest part of her own arousal, enjoyment, delight; every touch of his a wave of adoration flowing in ripples across her skin. For every time he takes her with his hands and his mouth, it is nothing less than worship: he massages her vulva with his thumbs, pressing and rubbing either side of her clitoris, not fully touching it yet. Deep and shallow, he alternates the pressure of his thumbs until the lips of her cunny are full, aching, heavy with blood, the inner folds swelling and unfolding like petals. So, so sensitive does he render her that even the littlest brushes of his thumb-tips upon her folds make her cunny clench painfully, her muscles curling so tightly that her hips are lifted up from the bed, she clawing at the sheets in her desperation to be touched by him more, deeper, harder, wetter, more--"Please kiss it, please, please."

When he finally wets his lips and presses his mouth to her clitoris, her hips jerk up; all of her blood seems to have rushed into her hips, all of her reaching out to meet him, she pushing her cunny onto his mouth as if her clitoris were a little prick seeking to irrumate. He, in turn, delights in this, sucking at that little bud, shivering himself as the tip of his chin dips against the opening of her cunny, so wonderfully wet that she has soaked her entire groin, her arse, the sheets. Moaning himself, he gives her clitoris a little sharp, pulling suck, pulling back his head as he does, letting her slip out of his mouth with a smack; when she cries out in desperation, he dives back in immediately and presses his teeth onto the root of her clitoris and repeats the action, even harder this time. Oh, but the noises she makes at this, the noises; half pants, half moans, even ululations--yet, soon even those die into but quiet sobs as he keeps on taking her with his mouth, alternating sucks soft and hard, long and short. By the time he slips two fingers inside of her cunny and curls them, just a little, just a little, she is already so far gone that she is undone upon his hand immediately; all he has to do is follow the waves of her contractions, press them harder out of her with his fingertips, intensify them with his own curls and sucks and licks.

"Oh--oh--God--"

Wicked, he laughs and slaps her cunny, twice, thrice. "And that's just the first. Now, for the second!"

He cannot hear what she moans in response, especially now that she is clutching his head with her thighs, the wonderful fat of them covering up his ears. But he needn't slip into her mind to read her body: he remembers that she likes the short, sharp sucks the best, and decides to attack her cunny with those for this, the second round. Merciless, he lets his teeth glide down the hood of her clitoris with every suck, truly pressing hard into her pubic bone; now, he sucks so hard with each one of his full withdrawals that her hips spasm up to follow him and her voice grows hoarse. Yet, he never takes his fingers out of her, continuing to press waves of pleasure out of her; both from the front and the back of her cunny does he press these waves until she begs him, telepathically, to keep his fingers there at the back--just there--and crashes into another orgasm as he curls his fingers behind her womb as hard as he can, she now gushing so violently he can feel her wetness pulsing down his cheeks.

Soon, she is tossing, maddened, perhaps maddened even more for his not having bound her to the bed: at least that would help keep her still and not jerk so, the unsteadiness of her trembling limbs forcing her to tense her body so that full relaxation is impossible. She nevertheless remains as if she were indeed bound, her hands pressed into the pillow on either side of her head.

"Is _that_ how used you are to being bound, my love?" He chuckles out loud and slides on top of her, gathering her into his arms and kissing her, sharing her own sweetness with her.

"Mngh," she moans into his kiss, still so sensitive that her hips--no, her entire body--jerks a little underneath him, so much so that her back is lifted off the bed. "I'm... I'm ready. Please..."

"My, my!" he laughs and lifts her into his arms; "Careful; you'll soon levitate us."

"Jaffar, I swear I'll levitate you out of that window if you don't take me right now!"

"Mmm," and he kisses her once more, rutting against her delicious wet heat, adoring how he can feel her cunny fluttering and pulsing against the underside of his prick. "Don't give me ideas," he mumbles.

But before she can protest, he is inside of her and she swears her hips swirl full of sparks, stars; so good does his every stroke now feel that she cries out loudly in surprise, half laughing, half moaning as each thrust within her feels like a rush of sparkling, glittering wine. Her womb, her veins, her nerves rushing full of wine; wine warm and golden and bubbling up and out of her lungs and off her tongue, fizzing in her hair--

 _What the hell was in that wine?_ Jaffar laugh-sputters inside of her mind, falling onto her in giggles, tipsy simply from feeling what she feels.

 _I only had half a bowl, diluted with water! It's all your love, my love; your love,_ she giggles back and squeezes him with her cunny, rocking back onto him passionately, eager for more of this sweet wine. _Perhaps it is but the friction--oh, this sweet friction,_ and she has to rub herself, a little flash of pain there from his having so mauled her with his teeth. _Don't stop; don't you dare stop--_

_Whatever happened to the six orgasms? Or the merciful three?_

"Shut up and take me!" she groans in his ear, rubbing at her clitoris furiously, beating back at his cock with her hips, taking him with her cunny. "Please, please, plea--"

But before she can finish, he has thrown her face down upon the bed, tarries only for the short moment it takes for her to arrange her hands against her cunny to ride them, and then he is driving into her, sinking her into the bed.

 _There we are, there we are, there we are,_ he slither-chuckles into her ear, shaking a little himself from how wonderful it feels to take her when her cunny is so swollen, so tight and hard from all the blood packed into it. It takes a little while for him to even get very deep inside of her, her body adjusting to taking him inside of itself once again; he goes slowly, resting his weight on top of her, only his hips moving as he undulates into her, out of her, into her, out of her again. She is shivering around him, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh at the wonderful shivers of pleasure each one of his strokes sends through her; all of her reeling at being so expanded, so stretched--and to think this is not even sodomy-- _yet!_

Jaffar but chuckles and licks the sweat from the nape of her neck, making her shiver at that, too. "I look forward to that, my sweet," he purrs. Sighing happily, he lifts himself up on his arms to add more force and length to his thrusts; all she can respond with are nonsensical groans, whimpers as she starts to come undone. So easily, so quickly she is unravelling upon his cock, upon her hands; she shouts into the pillows, her tongue wetting the brocade, screams from the force of her release. All of her body spasms underneath him, the muscles of her cunny, her womb pulling upon him so powerfully that her hips are jerked back and forth upon the bed; she lowers the pitch of her voice and beats her hips down upon him to make the last waves even deeper, darker, hotter, complete.

 _You're so wonderful, so wonderful, so wonderful,_ she swirls her adoration into his mind, washing him with the golden waves of her gratitude, her love, her relief. How divine his cock feels inside of her, how divine the heat and weight and hardness of his body now heavy upon her back; how divine his flesh, his being. And oh, she must worship, she must.

As she turns around underneath him, he looks at her askance: but as she pushes him down onto his back and takes him into her mouth, he but laughs fondly, letting his limbs drop down onto the bed, blowing hair from his face in delight. "Have your wicked way with me, then, my queen," he laughs into the canopies, his voice young and high; he even moans a little as her hair tickles his lower belly, sweeping across those wonderfully sensitive spots between his hipbones and his genitals.

But all she can see now, all she can focus on now is his cock, his wonderful cock; no matter how pagan it is of her, she turns to it in her adoration, murmuring her gratitude and her love against his skin. She mouths him firmly, licking and sucking her own taste from him; he is so far gone that she wastes no time on those little teases, flutters she would ordinarily use when bringing him to hardness. There is little need, so wonderfully firm does he now slide into her mouth: she adores the heaviness of this blood-thick flesh with which he now fills her, the way he so stretches her with his girth; she closes her eyes and takes him as deep into her throat as she can, magically suppressing her own urge to gag, her own need to breathe. Such is her hunger to now devour him, to surround him with her pleasure, to consume him within herself; each pulse of his veins, each tightening of his muscles against her tongue sending a lash of delight through her body. Yet she can sense him straining, fighting against the rising tide of orgasm a little, as if he were unsure of whether he should allow himself to come now, or whether to hold back, lest she desired more takings.

 _Please, don't hold back, my love,_ she tells him; _please let me drink you, please let me swallow you whole._

He but lets out a sigh at that, now beyond words; his body arches off the bed and that sigh breaks into a low moan as he lets go. Light-headed from lack of air, from joy, Yassamin shudders with him as she feels pulse after pulse of his seed hitting her throat; greedy, she pulls back to sip at the last of it, laughing around his cock. She holds down his hips with her hands, knowing how much he adores being pinned so at the moment of release; containing his shivering, she takes his tremors with her hands, swallowing his pleasure as she swallows him to the last drop.

 _My love, my love, my love,_ he moans weakly, his hands clutching as if he were attempting to beckon her to himself; yet he is still shuddering in little shocks, unable to control his body. He is still twitching a little as she slides to lie down on top of him, jerking as her skin slides against his. Adoring this, adoring him, she takes his mouth in a kiss, combing his hair with her fingers; even from his scalp does she now imbibe little sparks of pleasure with her fingertips, the energy palpable as it passes through her nerves.

"You're glowing," she chuckles into his mouth between kisses; this--him literally radiating with magical energy, yet so subtly only another magician can sense it--happens rarely, but it is not entirely unusual to them. Ordinarily they channel this magical energy raised by the act of love into some ritual purpose, some spell, but is this not, indeed, a ritual in and of itself?

"Mmm. I would say it is," he mumbles in her ear, sighing happily as he finally manages to wrap his arms around her, holding her tight. "The wife reclaiming her errant husband; it's only proper."

She sighs, too, letting her limbs fall slack. "Merciful God, I needed that!" Finally, after weeks of straining she can relax, the tension finally dissolving from her flesh.

"I think I still owe you a little more, however... how many times _did_ you come, actually?" he asks, slapping her on the rump.

"No more!" she moans, immediately reciting the cleansing-spell. Whenever they have not made love for a while, that always takes its toll on her poor cunny; she is not looking forward to a painful urinary infection this time, something that often follows after a long break from sex.

He chuckles, having heard her thoughts. "But I must get your cunny used to me again! That's the only way to prevent it."

She uses the cleansing-spell on his genitals for that, just to get him to yelp. "Alongside proper cleanliness," she says pointedly.

"I know, I know," he says and tickles her, now himself wrestling her down onto the bed. "But lovemaking is so much more enjoyable," he says, kissing her nose.

She slaps his arm. "Still. Remind me to only allow you in through the back door next time."

"Am I supposed to be upset by that?!" he makes a mock-shocked face.

Yet, he is a little surprised at how tired she is--but also relieved, as he is exhausted himself. Indeed, whenever she has been this stressed, she has needed more violent takings, more sodomy to fully exorcise the melancholy from her; he is genuinely astonished that she has not yet asked for him to take out any of his whips.

"Tomorrow," she yawns, having heard his thoughts.

"Now, _that_ sounds more like the demoness I know," he murmurs and nuzzles her face again, dropping a gentle kiss upon her lips.

But now he is yawning himself, jaw-crackingly so. "I'll see to it... I'll see to it tomorrow. Tomorrow...." but the third "tomorrow" dies into a mumble upon his lips, and in her arms, he curls up like a babe to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

*******

**The Blue House**

**The shabestan**

*******

"I told you, wife; I am not done with you yet!"

Yassamin's eyes are wide and she pants, her wrists pinned to the bed by Jaffar's spells, her blood pounding in her ears. Barely has she awoken to realise he has spirited them downstairs to the shabestan, she fully naked upon their bed, he standing at the foot of it fully clad, looming over her in a black silk suit. All of him one with the shadows, apart from his face and his hands; with his long fingers, he is now toying with one of his leather belts. The sight of the suit alone awakens her fully, her stomach lurching and her heart kicking into a gallop. Indeed, it's the sign of Jaffar having assumed the role of the cruel master, the brute: to exorcise from her her melancholies, from himself that part in him that was still of the tyrant, the beast.

And now, this beast awaits for her to step onto the stage, to assume her role in the play: he wishes for some reaction from her, hopes to hear words from her, it seems, to signal her willingness, acquiescence.

She licks her lips, testing the strength of the binding-spells about her wrists, her cunny leaping at how fast she is, indeed, held in place.

"What is thy wish... Master?"

And oh, the way his crooked teeth now gleam as he grins, grins like the wolf sighting a lamb, his eyes twin blue stars in the dark.

"Well, my love." He folds the belt in two and taps it playfully against his palm. "I noticed how you took great care to shave that lovely little cunny of yours. Yet, I barely got to see it at all," he tuts, and she can hear the laughter in his voice at the absurdity of his own words--but oh, how they both delight in this play! "Thus, it would please me greatly if you spread your legs for me a little, my love," he smiles, gesturing with the folded belt. "Let me have a good look at it, to see just how pretty you've made it for me."

"Gladly," she says--or, rather, tries to say; it comes out half a husky laugh, half a quivering croak.

Tense from excitement, fear, delight, already reeling from the rush of the wine that is their love-play, she lifts her knees and spreads her legs, shifting her hips to best display herself to him. Can he see how tightly her cunny just clenched, as she felt the air of the shabestan kissing her freshly shaven skin, her sex still tender from the attentions he had lavished upon it earlier tonight?

His smile tells her he can; softly, with easy pardine grace, he slides onto the bed and sits beside her. Yet, he does not stare at her cunny in particular, rather all of her; pleasuring himself with the sight of her. With the belt still folded, he traces the lines of her neck with it, tips up her chin to better kiss her, unhurried; she is shivering by the time he playfully drags the belt across her breasts, drinking in her little cries as he gives her nipples soft little slaps with it, promising strikes far crueller to come.

"That's it, my sweet," he purrs, curling his tongue to lick at her lips; he slaps her belly, her flanks, his laughter a rumble in his chest as she tosses there. "I knew you still had some heat left in you," he speaks against her lips, now bringing the folded tip of the belt onto the mound of her cunny and tapping there. "I couldn't possibly leave you like that, now could I?" he says in mock-shock, giving her one hard slap with it; it stings far more than she imagined it would and she howls, yet her cunny leaps uncontrollably at how aroused she is, even more so as he delivers it another slap, a third.

"Yes, you _are_ a little beast in heat, aren't you?" he laughs as he looks at how wet she's made the belt. He brings it to his face and inhales her scent theatrically, closing his eyes in delight. "My favourite kind," he says as he opens his eyes again, the corners of his eyes crinkled from joy, so warm and so wonderful it makes her chest ache. "Methinks I know just the thing to help soothe that heat."

He casts out a rune and she hears the tell-tale whirrs and clicks of an automaton coming to life: indeed, Sarosh sits upon the dais, smiling the exact same way Jaffar does, now beckoning to them both with all of his four hands.

Jaffar looks from Sarosh to her and blows upon her wrists, releasing her from her bonds. "This way, my love."

She staggers a little as she walks over to the dais--she is a little sore from earlier tonight, and is not entirely sure how much of Sarosh's ever-intense ministrations she can take. Yet she hesitates to say this out loud, the need of that heated beast in her much louder than common sense right now. The frustration that still remains within her is like unto a hand upon her back, pushing her towards Sarosh: so that he might tear it all from her, ravage it all to death.

"We shall, but gently," Jaffar whispers behind her and kisses her neck, having heard her thoughts. The look upon his face is considering, concerned, full of tender care; she knows he could never forgive himself if he hurt her too much.

But what _is_ too much for Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud? Only she herself knows it, and if--thanks to her reason being blinded by anguish, frustration and melancholy--she cannot fully trust herself, read herself, even know when to stop, how could Jaffar know when to stop, either?

"Yassamin," he says, taking her by the arms, facing her. "Let me show you what I was thinking of. And then, you can decide. All right?"

Suddenly cold, she sighs and leans against his chest, he gathering her fragile nakedness into the warm embrace of his silks. "All right," she murmurs and kisses his heart.

"Sarosh," he says gently.

"What is thy pleasure, Master?"

"I would very much like to see you hold your mistress in your arms, and take her from behind in that way she so loves--in a word, sodomise her. But so that she is facing me, so that I might love her, too. But most importantly, I wish for you to exercise the utmost care and gentleness in your task: to take her as gently as possible, so that we shall not harm her."

"To hear is to obey, Master," Sarosh says, a hand upon his heart.

"There we are, my love," Jaffar says and turns to Yassamin once more, his hand still upon her shoulder. "Still afraid?"

She shakes her head and laughs. "Help me up."

Thus, he arranges her to lie upon the dais on her left side, Sarosh lying likewise behind her; Jaffar arranges himself to lie in front of her in turn. Only as she relaxes in their embrace, does she realise Jaffar has lit incense, and that he has perfumed himself with those scents she so adores, she always associating them with him: musk, roses, ambergris. She inhales deeply from the euphoriac fragrance, relishing it as she slides off his clothes; that, and the scent of his own body, the sweetness of his kisses from sugared tea. He really has been making an effort; how long must he have been awake before she'd woken up? What time is it, even?

Jaffar chuckles into her mouth. "Not long past midnight, my love. You fell asleep early."

"Oh--" but it isn't the time that now makes her gasp: for Sarosh has lifted her leg and has started to spread a thick ointment onto her anus, rubbing it into its folds in gentle circles.

"Do you like that, my love?" Jaffar whispers against her lips, smiling, his own prick stirring as he feels her nipples hardening against his chest.

She answers by pulling him into a kiss, moaning into his mouth as Sarosh begins to press and rub at her arse, press and rub deep, but without pushing a finger in yet. She adores this pressure, her cunny tightening and wetting at it, fluttering between her legs as Sarosh keeps pleasuring her thus. So wonderful does it feel that she feels like taking her own hand to her cunny, such is her need to have herself rubbed from the front, too, but Jaffar manages to slip his hand there first.

"May I?" Jaffar asks, with his fingertips playful upon her mound. "I promise to be gentle."

"Mmm," she moans into his mouth and presses his hand lower with hers. _Be my guest,_ she tells him and takes her hand to his prick instead.

Thus, they lie there, slowly stroking each other for long moments until the intensity of their strokes is as fierce as that of copulation itself; both of them so wet they are dripping onto the carpet upon the dais. Sarosh has two fingers inside of Yassamin's arse, her clitoris is trapped between two fingers of Jaffar's, and already she is unravelling upon their hands, spasming, howling into Jaffar's shoulder. She squeezes so tightly at Jaffar's cock as she comes that he has to prise her hand off him--"So that you won't unman me, my love!" he laughs--and it's not difficult for him, considering she is shivering and shaking so much she all but melts into his arms.

"I am ready," she croaks. "I--"

But Jaffar has already guided Sarosh to begin penetrating her: she shudders at the unnatural sensation of the slim living metal pushing inside of her, Sarosh having made his prick as narrow as those two fingers of his had been. She clutches at Jaffar, gasping for breath as Sarosh sinks his fingers into her hips and begins to take her, slowly expanding and expanding the circumference of his cock with each stroke.

But then she is left clutching at the carpet, as Jaffar, always the voyeur, has slid down to watch. He lifts her leg and adores the glistening of her cunny, the sight of Sarosh's cock sliding in and out of her arse; he cannot help but deliver her cunny a little lick, chuckling as he pulls back a thick string of sap with his tongue.

"Enjoying yourself, my love?

"You--!"

But at that, Jaffar slaps at her cunny and gestures to Sarosh. Before she can protest, Sarosh has lifted himself, and her, into a sitting position: Sarosh now arranges himself to sit cross-legged upon the dais, Yassamin's legs spread wide over his thighs, held open by his lower hands.

Jaffar kneels before the dais as if before an altar, spreading his hands and grinning with delight. "My dream!" he cackles theatrically. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this," he grins, short of breath as he leans forward with his cock a-bobbing, adoring how she squirms in the firm grip of Sarosh's four arms. "Go on, Sarosh," he says and leans forward upon his crossed arms, so close to her cunny she can feel his breath upon it. "Take her."

She would roll her eyes if they weren't rolling back in her head already, from the depth at which Sarosh now penetrates her; she would swear at Jaffar but can barely even make a noise from the intensity of it all, but oh, it's _wonderful._ The strength of Sarosh's four arms, the ease with which he lifts her and lowers her again, the exquisite curves of his cock inside of her; her head is lolling back over his shoulder and she is sobbing, her cunny throbbing with blood and pursing with sap from her desperation to have it touched. She is almost coming, almost--

"Please, Jaffar, please--"

"But of course," he murmurs and leans in to pleasure her cunny. And as he does, he sends to her what he sees, this most beautiful sight that he has been yearning for for so long: her white flesh splayed wide, her skin covered with goosebumps, her ordinarily soft, rosy nipples now hard and dark a red. The flesh of her breasts quivering, lolling upon her chest as Sarosh begins a vigorous ride: the wonderful way the softness of her belly ripples as the pleasure rolls through her, as Sarosh's strokes echo through her entire body. The way Sarosh's silver frames her paleness, the way his thin, hard fingers sink into the plushness of her hips; the exquisite slide of his silvern prick stretching the ring of her anus into but a smooth O. The very sight makes Jaffar's cock drip each time Sarosh drives home deep, his balls pressed tight against Yassamin's perineum, oil and foam dripping down his sack in white streaks: _Oh, it's delicious, my love; **exquisite**_. And then, the sweetestmost of all, Yassamin's cunny: pink and bare and full against Jaffar's mouth, a peach dripping nectar for him to savour. Sarosh's strokes are so powerful that Jaffar is carried upon their waves himself, his hand on his own cock following their rhythm; Jaffar moaning into her cunny not only in his own pleasure, but to add to hers also.

And the waves rush through her so close to one another that she no longer knows where one orgasm ends and another begins; she is slammed, dropped onto Sarosh's cock one moment, held still the next, tossed like a leaf upon storm waves. Whether he pounds her hard, using her body's weight to slam her upon his prick, or whether he stays still, only his cock moving inside of her, every stroke of his is divine: every time the head of his prick hits the back of her womb, every time the ridges of the root move past the rings of her anus, lightning shoots up her spine, her eyes flash with stars. And the strangest thing of all is that this is a joining no less spiritual than her being taken by Jaffar himself: just as then, all of her is so wonderfully blown open, cloven so open wide that her very self floods out to meet Jaffar, surrounding him with her love, surging into him through the points where their bodies touch. His mouth on her cunny, his hand upon her knee, his breath upon her thigh: each one of them a pathway for his love to pour through her, each one of them a route for hers to pour back into him in turn.

She frees one of her hands and brings it to the back of his head, beckoning for him to look up. For she must see his eyes, she must; with great effort, she rolls down her head and tries to focus upon his face through the white haze of pleasure. And it is at his smile--his mouth still firmly fixed upon her cunny--that she is undone for the last time, with such intensity that light explodes behind her eyes: her vision turns light, then dark, then flickers purple, then once again dusks into the dark.

"My love, my love, my love," is the last thing she hears, the lye-scent of his sperm the last thing she smells before six pairs of arms gather her up in their love, wrap her up in their care: her soul as light as air, her consciousness evaporates and there is but Jaffar: Jaffar the love, Jaffar the velvet darkness, Jaffar the restful night.

*******

When she wakes up again, it is still dark: judging by the colourful lanterns beside the bed, she realises Jaffar has spirited them back into the love-chamber. Not a small feat after all the love-heroics he has performed today, so it is no wonder he is fast asleep, a heavy weight beside her; he doesn't stir even as she gets up to use the chamberpot. She is glad to notice Jaffar seems to have cleaned her, although the three--three!--layers of night-robes he has wrapped her in are hopelessly excessive; she almost falls over as she mops herself while trying to keep the robes out of the way.

The clockwork crane tells her it is nearly morning, and she doesn't feel like sleeping any longer. For prayer is better than sleep, is it not? Thus, she dresses quietly, makes sure Jaffar is tucked in warmly and leaves for the prayer room. Making her way through the house and the courtyard with lantern in hand, her breath frosting before her, she is already in a mood so holy that she fancies each plume of her breath a prayer, rising to the heavens to thank her Lord. Finally, after all these weeks of strain and tragedy, she feels clean enough, sane enough, pure enough to appear before God as one should: without the dark stains, blemishes of human worries tarnishing the mirror of her soul. For so has Jaffar scoured her, so has he brightened her soul that finally, the familiar prayers rise from her heart with ease, flow from her lips a song of joy.

In this mood of joy, of wonder, of gratitude she kneels and prostrates upon her carpet until the break of day.

Jaffar and the children join her for their own morning prayers later, he but smiling as they find her there. After they've finished and the children rush out for breakfast, Jaffar takes her by the hand. "Do you know what the little ones said when they saw you there?" he asks as they walk through the door to the courtyard.

"That I looked tired?" she laughs.

Jaffar shakes his head, now imitating Anwar's wide-eyed awe, the wonder in his voice. "'Mother looks so holy,' he whispered to Salsabil, 'like an angel.' And Salsabil stared at you. You know that serious look she has when she studies something very keenly, and then comes to a decision? She didn't say anything, but I could hear her thoughts. 'That's how holy I want to be,' she thought, as if making a vow."

Yassamin laughs and shakes her head. "That girl thinks too little of herself; already she is saintlier than I!" She squeezes Jaffar's hand and kisses it. "After all, I need the help of a guardian angel to purge me before I can fall into such a mood."

"You flatter me."

She glances at him from the corner of her eye. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make that joke about Jaffar the angel thrusting away with his 'flaming sword.' I couldn't bear it."

"All right, all right," Jaffar laughs and hugs her close, lifting her off her feet, only letting her down when she squeaks.

"Thank you," she whispers, her eyes flickering as she looks into his. "For so nourishing and cleansing my soul, last night and always."

He kisses her forehead. "It's why I am here, my love. But come," he says and slaps her on the arse, "Even saints and angels must eat sometimes."

She takes him by the hand and together, they walk through the greening courtyard into the morning, their feet light in the birdsong of spring.

*******

**THE END**

*******

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable promo post for this fic can be found [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1913076)


End file.
